


Vices & Virtues

by stumblinginthestars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Community: deancasbigbang, DCBB, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:24:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 57,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5192234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stumblinginthestars/pseuds/stumblinginthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has been accepted to Harvard and Dean is proud… But he’s also broke. He picks up a new job in order to keep the bills paid and start saving for Sam’s school and he’s focused… Until his reclusive neighbor comes over and distracts him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE thank you to Meg (nakama-in-waves on tumblr!) for being my beta for this & dealing with all my angst! Also shoutout to coplins (coplins on tumblr) for the amazing art! I honestly could not have done this without their support & that of my sister. So, even though my story took a darker, twistier turn than I had originally planned, I am so glad it's done and that these people were part of my dcbb experience!

Dean yawns loudly and walks up the stairs, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the concrete floor and bouncing off the tan and white stucco walls. He wishes he lived in one of those fancy apartments in the city that had elevators and where each apartment was an entire floor of the complex. He huffs out a laugh at this concept; he’d have to make a hell of a lot more money to afford that kind of place. He ascends to the third level and stifles another yawn as he puts a hand into the front pocket of his blue jeans and pulls out his key ring. The cool, Fort Worth air nips his bare arms as he flips through his keys before finding the one for his apartment. The sound of the door to his far left opening causes him to look up from unlocking his apartment door. He sees his neighbor— _Caleb? No. Cassius?_ He can’t remember.—dressed in black shorts and a ratty, grey University of Michigan shirt, gripping the railing of the balcony as he stretches out his hamstrings. Dean exchanges a polite nod with the athletic man, forcing himself to not gaze at the man’s well-toned legs, before opening his apartment door and slipping inside.

  


          

        He kicks his shoes off haphazardly in the cramped entryway area once he gets inside, letting them lay beside his work boots. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks the time—six-oh-two in the morning. He turns right and walks into the kitchen, setting his keys and phone on the countertop. He begins brewing a pot of coffee as he loads the dishwasher.

        “Sammy?” he calls out, his Kansas drawl echoing through the six hundred square-foot apartment as the coffee pot rattles and hisses before sputtering out a black, oily-looking substance. After pouring himself a cup of sludge, Dean pads out of the kitchen and turns left to the side of the apartment his little brother’s room is on. There had been the option of a three-bedroom apartment when they moved to this location, but the two brothers didn’t need three rooms, honestly. Sam had wanted the three-bedroom, saying that the third room could house a guest or … a family member. Dean shoves aside this thought with a scoff before lightly rapping his knuckles against his little brother’s door.

          “Sammy?” he calls again, pushing the door ajar slightly. The room is dark and Dean enters, flipping on the light, causing a loud groan to rise from the lump of covers on the twin bed. “You got an hour before school, bro.” Dean chuckles, ripping the covers off his brother.

          Sam shoots Dean a squinty-eyed bitch face from under his mussed mop of brown hair.

          “C’mon, get up.”

          Dean walks out of the bedroom and past the living room to finish his coffee at the small dining room table, sitting in one of their three, mismatched chairs. Dean sighs around his coffee cup, eyes closed as he listens to the rattling of the dishwasher and the muffled rumble of cars speeding down the interstate about three miles from the apartment’s parking lot. He drinks down his first cup of coffee and walks back into the kitchen and pours himself another mug full while waiting patiently for his little brother.

          Sam emerges from his bedroom at six fifty-five, backpack slung over one shoulder. Dean underhandedly tosses a Pop Tart package at the eighteen year old, who catches it easily. Dean quirks a tired grin at Sam as the boy rips open the Pop Tart wrapper and takes a large bite before heading to the coffee pot. Sam empties the rest of the coffee into the stainless steel travel mug that Dean had gotten him for his last birthday.

          “You ready?” Dean asks as he sets aside his half-empty mug.

          Sam nods, taking another large bite of Pop Tart before heading towards the entryway. He trips over one of Dean’s sneakers and his stumbling sends the remainder of his purple and blue breakfast pastry hurtling to the tiled floor where it breaks apart. Sam sends Dean an agitated glare. “Could you please pick up your shoes for once?” he grumbles, gathering up the broken pieces of food in one hand and tossing them into the trash can in the kitchen.

          “I’m sorry, but I work all night at the bar and I’m freaking tired when I get home.” Dean snaps back, following Sam out the front door as he tugs on his worn-down work boots. He makes sure to lock the beige door behind him.

          “Whatever, Dean,” Sam sighs ahead of him and sips his coffee from the thermos. Dean is too tired to pursue the argument and follows Sam down the stairwell and toward the parking lot. They both clamber into the front seat of Dean’s sleek, black Impala and Dean drives out of the lot and onto the street. He drives up onto the freeway and clicks on the radio, AC/DC blaring through the speakers. Sam rifles through his backpack and pulls out a copy of _Catcher in the Rye_ and reads silently as Dean maneuvers through traffic. The two brothers drive in companionable silence for twenty minutes before Dean reaches forward and turns down the radio that is now advertising child care services.

          “Is that for class?” Dean asks, gesturing at the book. “Or are you just reading for fun?”

          “It’s for English,” Sam says as he flips a page.

          “Yeah, I remember when I had to read that in high school,” Dean muses as he presses lightly on the brakes as traffic begins to pile up. “I hated it.”

          “This book?” Sam asks, looking appalled.

          “Yeah, it’s just some bratty kid complaining about his life!”

          “Dean, this book is a classic.”

          “That doesn’t automatically mean it’s good.”

          “Yeah, it kinda does.”

          Dean rolls his eyes at Sam, turning toward his brother slightly with his right arm slung across the back of their seat. “No, it doesn’t. Remember Great Expectations? That is supposedly a classic and I don’t think anyone likes that book.” He says, jabbing a finger at Sam before letting the car move forward about a yard; traffic is inching along slowly.

          “Okay, okay, you have a point,” Sam relents with a chuckle.

          Dean pulls into the front drive of Sam’s high school five minutes before eight o’clock. As Sam clambers out, he rattles off a list of things he is doing after school, finishing with, “So, I’m just gonna catch a ride home from Jess.”

          Dean waggles his eyebrows at his brother. “Jess? Is she hot? Are ya’ll dating?” he jabs with a wolfish grin.

          “What? Uh, no. Shut up.” Sam stammers, face reddening.

          “Uh-huh, riiiight. Well, just text me when you’re on your way home.”

          “Alright. Bye, Dean,” Sam replies, waving his hand as he pushes the door shut.

          Dean raises his hand to his brother before pulling out of the school zone and back onto the interstate. He drives about half an hour before pulling into a rundown auto shop. Dean parks his car around back before walking through a large, metal door. There is a stain on the door from years of water leaking from the gutters, causing it to slightly rust. Dean walks through the entrance and grabs a blue-grey jumpsuit off a peg hanging to the right of the doorframe. The clanking of machinery comes from directly outside of the back room in the garage. Dean steps into the one-piece, forcing his boots through the foot holes before pulling it up over his jeans. He’s pulling on the sleeves as he steps into the shop. The twenty-two year old can tell that it’s going to be a busy day; he sees two cars parked in the garage already. A few of his co workers are welding something underneath an old, green Pontiac. Dean doesn’t even try to hide the look of distaste that crosses his face upon seeing the car. Bobby Singer—his boss—is in the doorway of the front office, clipboard in-hand as he eyes a maroon Jeep Wrangler that appears to be leaking some kind of fluid.

          “Heya, Bobby!” Dean exclaims, startling the old man from staring down the vehicle.

          “Son of a--!” Bobby grumbles at Dean before scribbling something onto the papers on the clipboard. “What are you doin’ here, Winchester? You still have ten minutes to slack off.”  

          Dean chuckles, knowing Bobby is just kidding with him. Dean is one of the hardest workers in the shop, though he occasionally shows up late due to traffic on the way back from dropping off his kid brother. Dean even stays hours after closing time some nights if he isn’t busy with his other job and the shop really needs an extra pair of hands. This job is way better than the other, anyway, Dean thinks to himself.

          Dean zips his jumpsuit up halfway before approaching the fifty-year-old man. Bobby is scratching his forehead, jostling his ball cap and causing it to sit slightly higher on his forehead than usual. “What’s up?” he asks, folding his arms and turning to face the Jeep as well.

          “Well, they never got their damn oil changed for starters. And its engine is leakin’ like nobody’s business.” Bobby gruffly states. “You wanna take care of it?”

          Dean nods once, lips jutting out as he gives the vehicle a once-over. “Sure thing, boss.”

          “Don’t call me that,” Bobby huffs before disappearing into the office as the phone rings.

          Dean grabs the tools he needs and rolls himself under the vehicle after popping the hood and giving everything a quick examination. He works on the car and gets lost in the activity of doing so. Fixing cars is like putting together a puzzle for Dean; everything has a place and a piece it fits with. He’s good with cars, too—if it’s broken, he can usually tell you where and why, and can fix it himself. Grease covers his nimble fingers as he unscrews and surveys parts of the car, a smudge of the stuff getting smeared above his left eyebrow when he goes to wipe away a sheen of sweat. Hours pass by and Dean hardly notices.

          “You gonna take a lunch break sometime today?” Bobby’s voice snaps Dean’s focus from the car.

          “What time is it?” Dean asks, rolling himself out from underneath the Jeep and glancing at the large, plain clock on the wall. “Already noon, huh?”

          “Yeah, Ash and Gordon are leaving to go to that Mexican place up the road.” Bobby says and Dean stands up to see that the other two mechanics are no longer in the garage.

          “Oh, well, I’d rather work on this and get it finished in the next couple days,” Dean replies as he gives the Wrangler a long look.

          “You’re gonna work yourself to death.” Bobby warns him.

          “Well, maybe you could stand to keep this place open all week instead of only weekdays?” Dean pesters, nudging his boss’s shoulder playfully. He’s only partially kidding; he would give anything to be able to put more hours in at the shop. It is expensive to live in the apartment complex they chose, but no way was Dean moving his little brother to a dangerous neighborhood. Then, there’s Sam’s college next year that he has been trying to save up for…

          Bobby huffs indignantly. “No way, José. I like my weekends off. Besides, I spend enough time with you chuckleheads; another two days may give me a heart attack.”

          Dean lets out a half-hearted laugh, wiping the grease from his right hand onto his jumpsuit’s pant leg. “Well, it was worth a shot,” he sighs with a sad smile.

          “I know that money’s tight, Dean. I try to give you all the best cars and clients, but… Business just ain’t what it used to be.” Bobby quietly tells the boy, seeming to read Dean’s thoughts.

          “I appreciate that, Bobby. I do. Really.” Dean says, clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder before lowering himself to sit back on the creeper. “Just keep giving me cars and I’ll keep fixing them.” He shoots Bobby a smile before lying back on the creeper and rolling it under the hunk of metal on wheels.

          The remainder of the eight-hour shift at the shop goes by quickly. Dean is grateful that Sam has arranged to get a ride home already so he doesn’t have to clock out early to drive out to the school. Sam hates hanging out at the auto shop whenever Dean has to pick him up; the kid says it’s “too loud to focus on his studies.” Dean uses a welding gun underneath the jeep, agreeing with Sam internally on the fact that it is too loud to hear yourself think—let alone study—in this metal building. But Dean needs the hours and Sam knows that, so the teen tries not to whine too much whenever he is hauled to the shop after school for an hour or two. Dean feels someone nudging his boot and he hollers, “One minute! Almost done!” as he secures the last piece of the puzzle that was the underside of the jeep. Once he is satisfied with his job, Dean rolls out from under the car, wiping his stained hands on the thighs of his jumpsuit.

          Bobby is looking down at him over his slightly pudgy stomach. “How close are ya?” he asks as he levels the clipboard to write on it.

          “Well,” Dean replies, pushing himself to his feet and leaning back on the maroon vehicle. “It needed its purge solenoid changed about… a year ago. So, the charcoal canister was completely saturated. But I ordered a new solenoid and did what I could with the canister. I just need to check the brake lines tomorrow; I think that’s what was leaking.”

          “Nobody takes care of their damn cars anymore,” Bobby grumbles under his breath as he scribbles onto the documents on his clipboard. “Well, I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, Dean. Get some rest.”

          Dean huffs a laugh as he pulls his arms free from the jumpsuit, letting the upper half hang around his waist as he wanders into the back room. He removes the remainder of the jumpsuit before heading out of the building and collapsing into the driver’s seat of his Impala. He starts the car and drives home, using the elongated periods of time stuck in traffic to close his eyes and take micro-naps, being awoken by either the honking of drivers behind him or of his own accord.

          He gets back to the apartments at around six-thirty and the sun has already started to disappear, dipping below the horizon as the November breeze ruffles his plaid over shirt. He reaches his door and fiddles with his key ring as he hears someone climbing the stairs and approach him from behind. He subconsciously tenses, preparing himself for a fight. His muscles contract as he turns around and the footsteps stop behind him. Dean relaxes when he sees it’s only the next door neighbor with a strange name that he had been kind-of-not-really checking out the past few months.

          “Your mail was in my box by mistake.” The man says in a gravelly voice, pulling two white envelopes from the pocket of his long, tan trench coat.

          “Oh, thanks, uh…” Dean falters, taking the mail from his neighbor’s extended hand. “Sorry, what’s your name?”

          “Castiel Novak,” the man frowns, looking a bit slighted before he manages his face back into its neutral state.

          “Well, then Castiel, thank you,” Dean says with a nod before turning back to his door. He feels the man’s eyes lingering for a minute, but ignores the feeling and focuses on unlocking his door. When he ducks into his place, he spares a look outside, but Castiel has disappeared into his apartment. Dean eases the door closed with a shrug, calling out to his brother. He hears his muffled response from the teen’s bedroom and kicks off his work boots beside the front door. “Is your girlfriend still here?” Dean loudly asks as he meanders into the kitchen.

          “She’s not my girlfriend, Dean.” Sam says in a hushed tone after padding into the room in sock feet.

          Dean looks up from digging ingredients out of the small spice cabinet and sees his brother blushing bright red with a pretty blonde girl lingering a few feet behind him. Dean sends Sam a somewhat apologetic look before smiling over his lanky brother’s shoulder at the skinny girl. “Heya, Jess,” Dean says as he sets aside the small bag of brown sugar. “I’m Dean, Sammy’s big brother.”

          “Hello,” she says as she adjusts her purse strap on her shoulder.

          “Sam, is she staying for dinner?” Dean asks his brother, not waiting before he looks at Jessica and saying, “You can stay for dinner if you want. I’m making meatloaf and potatoes.”

          “Uh, thanks, but I have to head home,” Jessica says, smiling at Sam. “Maybe next time?”

          “Yeah, yeah, sounds great!” Sam responds, causing Dean to smirk at his little brother’s enthusiasm.

          Dean turns his back on the teens and gathers all the things he needs for his recipe, a mixing bowl, and a chipped, glass loaf pan he bought at Goodwill a few months back. He hears Sam close the door behind Jessica and says, “Sammy, she’s cute.”

          “Shut up,” Sam grumbles as he hoists himself to sit on the kitchen counter on the opposite side of Dean.

          “Don’t tell me you haven’t asked her out yet,” Dean pleads as he crumbles up a few Saltines into the mixing bowl and turns on the oven.

          “It’s complicated,” Sam says, folding his arms.

          “Don’t be a pansy,”

          “I’m not!”

          “Yes, you are!”

          “Jerk.”

          “Just ask her to the movies or to go to the park or something. One-on-one time that doesn’t involve studying. It’s that simple.”

          Dean hears his brother sigh agitatedly and looks over from mushing together the raw beef with the other ingredients. “What? What are you afraid of?” he asks, kneading the ingredients in the bowl.

          “What if…” Sam sighs before finishing, “What if she says ‘no’?”

          Dean scoffs, grabbing handfuls of the raw beef mixture and placing them into the glass pan. “If she says no, she says no. The world isn’t gonna end. Besides, she’s not gonna say no.”

          “How do you know?” Sam asks skeptically.

          “Because you’re not a dick like other boys your age. Believe me, I know.”

          “Dean, you weren’t a—“

          “And you’re smart and you’ve got the whole floppy-hair-thing going—girls like that hair. I don’t know why; I feel like you may need to trim it down, but,” Dean shrugs, squirting some ketchup on top of the raw meatloaf.

          Sam chuckles, pushing his hair from his face. “Whatever, Dean,”

          Dean places the meatloaf in the oven before going to the sink to wash his hands. “Look, she likes you. I can tell.” Dean says, scrubbing his hands. “Just take a chance.”

          “Alright, alright,” Sam relents, raising his hands in surrender. “But if I make myself look stupid, it’s your fault.”

          Dean huffs a laugh and shakes his head as he turns off the water faucet and dries his hands on the towel hanging from the oven’s handle. “Okay, the meatloaf will be done in about an hour. I’ll mash the potatoes after I change.”

          “You work tonight?” Sam asks, sounding slightly disappointed.

          “Yeah,”

          “But you usually have Thursdays off..?”

          “Yeah, well, one of the other guys called in sick, so I picked up his shift,” Dean shrugs as he walks out of the kitchen towards his bedroom.

          “Is it all night this time?” Sam calls after him.

          “Uh, I think I may get off a little early… Might be home at ‘round two or three?” Dean replies as he enters his room, pushing the door shut behind him.

          He hears Sam’s muffled “okay” from the kitchen and locks his bedroom door. He pads across the light brown carpeting that the bedrooms of the apartment have before turning on his CD player. He picks out one of his favorite AC/DC CDs and places it into the machine, nodding along as the electric guitar comes screaming out of the cheap speakers. Dean huffs a sigh and pulls off his plaid over shirt along with the sweat-stained t-shirt he wears underneath it. After spritzing himself with his knock-off brand cologne, he rifles through his closet before selecting a plain, black tee that clings to his body and stretches tightly across his broad shoulders and pulls it on. Dean kneels beside his bed and pulls a storage container out from underneath. He pops off the container’s plastic lid and eyes the contents of the box, digging around through the different fabrics before pulling out a black, satin pair of super-short boxer briefs. Dean closes the box and kicks it under his bed before stripping his lower half and pulling the tight-fitting underwear up over his bare backside. He checks his reflection in the mirror, situating himself in the underwear before padding barefoot to his small dresser and pulling out one of the pairs of black slacks and pulling them up over his legs to button them at his hips. He finds black socks and slips them on before tugging on his scuffed, black dress shoes. He gives himself another once-over in the mirror and checks that there is no visible-underwear line. He self-consciously runs a hand through his slightly-tousled hair. He’s wearing a lot of black, but that is his uniform requirement for tonight. He pulls his heather grey hoodie over the outfit, zipping up the front halfway before grabbing his backpack and turning off his music.

          Dean sets aside his bag by the front door, listening to Sam talk about school while he prepares a bowl of mashed potatoes. Sam scribbles down his homework assignment, asking Dean for help with a couple questions regarding his English paper over Cormac McCarthy’s _The Road_. Dean helps his brother, happy that he can be of some use. Sam is smart and has a future.

          “Sam’s got a chance to do somethin’. You better not wreck it.”

          Dean grimaces remembering his father’s words. He’s doing his best to make sure Sam has what he needs. Sure, they don’t live in a swanky house and they don’t have expensive stuff, but Dean is saving his money to fund Sam’s dream of going to college. Law school, to be exact. He internally sighs as he thinks of the cost, but looks over at his brother and knows that his brother deserves to go to college. _Don’t want him to end up like me,_ Dean thinks bitterly.

          “Uh, I’m heading out,” Dean says, leaving the bowl of potatoes on the counter as he checks the time on his cell. “If you need anything you—“

          “Call you or Bobby. I know.” Sam cuts Dean off, not looking up from his book.

          “Right. See ya, Sammy,” Dean calls, grabbing his backpack and keys and stepping outside.

****

          Dean’s commute to his second job takes a while longer since it’s a drive from Fort Worth to Dallas. Dean slumps on the drive there, watching lights zipping by as he speeds down interstate 20, heading east to his destination. The lighting along the side of the interstate gets further apart until he is driving with only his headlights and the street lamps lighting the pitch black night. He drives past Arlington and Irving as he blasts his Metallica CD and, after a half hour, the lights of the big city reflect on his windshield. He sees his exit and veers into the turning lane. He lowers his radio’s volume as he slowly drives down the street lined with a long-closed floral shop, dilapidated businesses, and storage sheds. There it is. Dean pulls into the lot, the flickering sign on the entrance causing his stomach to churn. He breathes in deeply to get himself ready to head into the crappy workplace, leg jiggling in anticipation. With one final huff, Dean shuts off the Impala’s engine and climbs out into the cold night, hoisting his backpack up over his shoulder.

          The Firefly Inn.

          Dean had thought the place sounded a bit too cutesy when he’d first heard of it. He straightens as he pushes into the employee entrance on the side. He looks around the small employee locker room, but sees no one else around. Huffing, he pulls off his sweater and tucks it into his backpack and makes his way towards the hallway door. He passes the row of rusted, unused lockers before stepping out of the stuffy room and into the tan and forest green hallway. The front desk is a few doors down from the employee room and Dean makes his way there, already hearing the grating voice of his boss from behind the counter.

          “I don’t care if he’s the bloody president of the company. If he doesn’t hold his end of the bargain, then I can’t hold up my end either. Understand?” the man’s Scottish accent leers as Dean raps his fists on the front desk. A shorter, well-dressed man emerges from the room tucked behind the front desk, stuffing his cell phone into his suit jacket’s pocket as he looks up at Dean. “Hello, Dean. Don’t you look pretty as a present.”

          “Hey, Crowley,” Dean plasters on a fake smile. Sure, he hates Crowley and could definitely best the shorter man in a fight, but the guy was his boss. And he gave Dean more than most of the other guys he had under him. And Crowley could seriously fuck you up with all his connections, he reminds himself. “So, uh, you got a buyer?”

          “Yes, I did.” Crowley smirks before turning and heading into the room behind the counter, prompting Dean to walk behind the front desk and follow.

          “Is it a man or woman?” Dean asks as he enters Crowley’s personal office. It’s a cramped, dull space with a cheap desk in the middle, a plush desk chair on the opposite side and a file cabinet tucked in the back corner.

          “Does it matter?” Crowley quirks an eyebrow as he plops to a seat in his large, black chair.

          Dean presses his lips together and shakes his head. He watches Crowley rifle through twelve pages stacked on his desktop before the older man pulls out the second-to-last document with a quiet “aha!”

          “This arrangement…” Crowley begins, pressing his fingertips together in a teepee-like structure, “It’s _different_ than your previous gigs.”

          “What do you mean?” Dean asks warily.

          “This particular client wants to purchase you…. for an extended time.” Crowley slowly says, gauging Dean’s reaction.

          “What?” Dean frowns. “What does that mean? Like live with them? I’m not gonna be anybody’s trophy wife. I’ve got other shit to do.” Dean feels himself getting annoyed at the proposal.

          Crowley releases a sigh that rivals that of a teenage drama queen. “Easy there, tiger,” Crowley deadpans. “He’s not paying you to play house with him and wash his knickers. He’s paying you to be at his beck and call. Whenever. Wherever.”

          Dean glowers across the cheap faux-wood desktop at his superior, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. “How much?”

          Crowley scribbles something onto a Firefly Inn notepad before scooting the pad across the table. Dean leans over, eyebrows shooting up upon seeing the figure. “That much. Per week.” Crowley says alluringly. “Of course, I’ll be taking my share, but you can’t really resist this offer.”

          Dean licks his lips, calculating how much he will make after Crowley takes his forty percent. “What—How can he afford this?” Dean queries, although he almost doesn’t care.

          Crowley shrugs. “Family’s in oil and politics.”

        _I can pay the bills. I can put Sam into law school…_ “How long will this last?” Dean asks, finally looking up from all the zeroes on the green-tinted paper.

          “As long as he wants a toy to play with. Maybe a week. Maybe a year. I don’t know and, frankly, I don’t care.” Crowley responds icily, seeming annoyed with Dean’s questions. “Do you want this deal or should I have called Gordon?”

          “No! No, I mean, yes. Yeah, I’ll take the deal.” Dean says with a quick nod.

          “Good boy.” Crowley says, handing Dean a silver pen and the paper he had pulled from the stack. “Sign the dotted line.”

          Dean frowns; he has never had to sign any kind of contract before seeing as what he does is far from legal. He pauses with the pen above the paper, wondering if he should read it before signing. But Crowley is glaring at him with eyes like daggers and he scribbles his name down in an attempt to stay on the Scotsman’s good side. Crowley snatches the paper back as soon as Dean crosses the ‘t’ in his last name.

          “Who is my client..? Do I meet them tonight?” Dean queries, masking his building nerves by acting like he doesn’t really give two craps.

          “Unfortunately, no. He’s on a business trip, but he will be contacting you either tomorrow or Saturday.” Crowley says as he reorganizes the stack of papers on his desk, slipping the page with Dean’s signature back in its place. “His name is Alistair. But that’s all I’m gonna give you for now. Tonight, you’ve got Ruby again.”

          Dean scowls and nods. Ruby is a regular of his, buying a night with him once every couple of months. She is a rough and tumble girl who likes rough and tumble services which Dean is fine with. But Ruby is a bitch, he thinks, managing his face back to neutral. Crowley shoos him out, saying, “Room one-oh-six.”

          Dean knocks on the door, analyzing the chipping paint on the doorframe. “Come on in!” he hears Ruby’s scathing voice call from within the room. He sets his jaw, hiking his pack higher on his shoulder before opening the door. He plasters on the stupid, cocksure smile and walks with the annoyingly arrogant swagger of a prize-winning stud. “Hey there, hot stuff.” Meg’s voice cackles as she strips him with her eyes. She launches herself at him and he discards his backpack by the door. Her lips are hooking onto skin like a sucker fish and Dean slips into his routine. _Anything the client wants, the client gets. Anything they want._ It’s ingrained in his mind. _You aren’t important. Make sure they get what they need._

          Dean works on Ruby, twisting and rubbing and licking. He makes her scream and she pulls his hair too roughly for his liking, but he can’t say much of anything if he wants her to continue to pay a little more than usual for him... Dean gets paid a little more than the other prostitutes at the Inn for three reasons. One: he’s attractive. He knows he’s attractive; he has heard it from every client how pretty he is. How hot or sexy or orgasmic he looks. He knows they like his full lips and his toned arms and his firm ass and everything in between. The second reason: his skillset. He’s damned good at his job. He knows what buttons to push and how to swivel his hips just right. He can hold out for a long time all while pleasuring his client into a shaking mess. The third and final reason Dean’s got a bit more pay: he’s bisexual. He can be bought by either men or women and sometimes by both at once. This makes him twice as available and twice as desirable.

          Dean made normal wages when he first started at the Firefly Inn one year ago, only getting bought a couple times due to his youthful face and thinner frame. Crowley had often been aggravated at how naïve Dean was, at how guilty he had looked after each client; Crowley had threatened to fire him and cast him out to the streets if he didn’t do his bloody job right. Dean had taken that as incentive and Googled every sex toy, position, and outfit known to man. He had bulked up, gaining fifteen pounds in muscle and told his boss that he was willing to take male clients as well as female. And he got a raise and was able to pay for his apartment and new school clothes for Sam. And it was worth it.

     _It’s worth it._

          Dean thrusts into Ruby one final time, hearing her yell as she climaxes. And he feels the scrape of her fingernails on his back before the needy hands stop moving and the manicure digs into his shoulder blades. He grits his teeth, barely holding back an onslaught of cursing because he knows that her pristine, red nails have scratched him. _And no one wants damaged goods._ Ruby flops onto the mattress in a heap, releasing Dean from her velociraptor-like claws. Dean slowly pulls out, drawing a soft moan from Ruby’s lipstick-smudged mouth. Dean leaves her on the bed, heading into the dingy bathroom to take care of himself. He hates this part; having to finish himself off when he didn’t even want to start in the first place. Well, sometimes he gets some good-looking clients that he actually enjoys pounding into the mattress, but whether or not Dean is taken care of is never on the top (or bottom, or even in the middle) of his clients’ lists. _So long as the customer gets what they paid for, that’s all that matters,_ Dean reminds himself, mimicking Crowley’s voice in his mind and that’s kind of an instant turn-off. Dean determines that he’s just gonna deal with his hard-on until it goes away and quietly walks back into the room, pulling on his underwear and jeans.

          “What? You don’t wanna cuddle?” Ruby sarcastically asks, propping herself up on her elbows.

          “You don’t like to cuddle,” Dean says monotonously as he picks up his shirt off the dingy carpet.

          “True.” Ruby nods, lying back down atop the stack of cheap pillows. “But I’m paying for a full night and I like that mouth of yours. How about you put it to good use?”

          Dean drops his shirt on the floor again and starts to climb onto the bed when Ruby gives him a scolding look. “Pants off, kitty-cat.” She orders, watching as Dean slowly undoes his trousers and pushes them to the floor. He looks up at her for approval and she motions at his underwear, her thin eyebrows raised expectantly. Dean holds back a sigh, working his face into a teasing grin, and slips off his underwear, exposing himself to the cool, motel room’s air once more.

          “Alright,” Ruby says, spreading her legs. “Eat your heart out.”

****

          It’s six in the morning. Dean sluggishly climbs the stairs to his apartment, fighting off sleep with every step. You cannot sleep on the stairs, you’re almost there, he tells himself, laughing a little at the thought of freezing his face off by sleeping outside when he is one flight of stairs away from his apartment. He runs a hand through his bedhead, yawning loudly as he gets to the third and final flight. Castiel is awake, he notes as he sees the light pouring out from a crack beneath in his neighbor’s door frame. The door flies open and Castiel steps out in a huff, phone pressed to his ear.

          “Gabriel. Please stop meddling in my li—“ the man sounds frustrated.

          Dean freezes— keys in hand— on the last step of the stairs. He wonders if he should go back down the stairs or walk past his neighbor. “You’re being ridiculous. What does it matter what I do?!” the dark haired man groans, his free hand fiddling with the hem of his too-big t-shirt. Dean’s eyes rake up and down Castiel’s figure, taking in the shirt hanging lopsidedly to expose some of Castiel’s collarbone and the man’s navy blue polyester drawstring pants that flow around the muscular legs and toned backside. “It is not of import. Who I do or do not choose to express favor towards is none of your— Family Christmas?! Are you completely serious right now?” Castiel is still growling into the phone when Dean decides to just go to his door because if Castiel sees him standing there gawking, it will be a lot more awkward than just interrupting a little to get into his damn apartment. Dean clears his throat as he steps off the stairs and onto the landing. “No! Please don’t come down! You and Father need to—“

          The rumbling stops and a pair of big, blue eyes focus on Dean as he walks the five steps across the landing to his door. Dean meets Castiel’s gaze, feeling hypnotized for a moment.

          “Uh… good morning,” Dean says inelegantly, looking away from the man to unlock his door.

          He hears the man’s gravelly voice say, “Good morning,” before hissing into his phone, “We will finish this discussion at a later date. Or perhaps, not at all.”

          Dean gets his door unlocked at the same time he hears, “I apologize for that display.”

          Dean looks over his shoulder, somewhat dumbfounded. He’s lived beside the man for nearly one year and has never gotten more than a ‘hello’ from the reclusive neighbor. Castiel is standing somewhat awkwardly, arms dangling limply at his sides and looking at Dean with embarrassment. “Uh, no,” Dean shakes his head and waves the hand that isn’t holding the doorknob in a dismissive way. “It’s no problem, man. I didn’t mean to interrupt or anything.”

          “You didn’t.”

          “Okay, well…” Dean says, unsure of what else to say to the man. He purses his lips before gesturing to the door. “Gotta get in at least thirty minutes of sleep, so…”

          Castiel tilts his head to the right and nods in a perplexed sort of way. “Alright.”

          “It was…I, uh… I’ll see ya later, Castiel,” Dean waves over his shoulder as he opens the door and steps across the threshold.

          “You, too, Dean.” The man returns as Dean closes the door.

          Dean unlaces his dress shoes and toes them off with a heavy sigh. _If I wake Sam up now, I can shower real fast and sleep till he’s ready at seven…_ Dean calculates, but is startled by a movement to his left. He looks into the kitchen and sees Sam is sitting on the kitchen counter eating a bowl of cereal. “Were you flirting with our neighbor?” the teenager smirks from under his bedhead.

          “What the hell, Sam.” Dean grumbles, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You scared the shit outta me.”

          Sam chuckles and sets the bowl aside after slurping out the last of the milk. “You didn’t answer my question.”

          “Our neighbor is a man.” Dean says, not wanting to admit that he has the hots for their weird-o neighbor with a weird-o name to himself much less Sam. Sure, Sam knows about Dean’s preferances. He’d figured Dean out months before Dean had come out and, unfortunately, Sam was there when their father had figured Dean’s little secret out.

          _You’re a fag?!_

_I mean, uh, I’m… bisexual, sir. It’s different._

_I’m not having a cocksucker for a son! I didn’t raise you to do this!_

_You didn’t raise me at all!_

          Dean cringes at the memory, thinking, _Yeah, that went swimmingly._ But Sam seems to have accepted Dean’s sexuality and embraces it more so than Dean himself does at times. Like now. Sam lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “C’mon, man, I’ve seen you check him out.”

          “No you haven’t,” Dean scoffs, heading to his room.

          Sam trails behind him, not letting it go. “Yeah, I have. Like you check him out when he gets back from his runs when we’re leaving for school sometimes or--”

          “Okay, _okaaayy_ ,” Dean drones, pulling off his shirt. “So I think he’s attractive. So what?”

          “Why don’t you ask him out?”

          Dean rolls his eyes. “If he’s not… If he doesn’t swing this way,” Dean gestures to himself, “then, things will get more awkward than they already are.”

          “I think he’s gay. Or bi, at least,” Sam shrugs.

          “How do you know? You’ve only seen the guy a handful of times,”

          “I have gay-dar.”

          “Sam, I don’t even have gaydar.”

          “I know you don’t, but I do. That’s how I knew about you, dude,” Sam smirks. “But really, you should give it a shot.”

          “Okay. Thanks for the advice. Can I shower now or is Oprah’s Life Class not over yet?” Dean quips.

          Sam scowls and leaves Dean’s room saying, “You’re such a baby.”

          Dean strips off his clothing and steps under the hot stream of water in his shower. He rinses off the musty smell of cheap sex and cheap sheets and cheap perfume. He washes the feeling of Ruby’s hands out of his hair and the taste of Ruby’s lips off his mouth. The ten minute shower leaves him feeling fresh, but not clean. He pulls on underwear and a pair of grey sweatpants before flopping on his bed. Thirty minutes until Sam needs to leave. Dean closes his eyes and drifts into the familiar claws of his nightmares.

          “Wake up, Dean.”

          The warm, familiar smell of coffee floats around the room and the bitter tang of Dean’s regular nightmares melt into nothing but a soothing abyss before he is freefalling into awareness. He peels his eyelids open and sees his brother holding out a thermos. Sam’s eyes are filled with worry, but Dean ignores it, looking away from his too-smart brother as he sits up in bed. He shoots Sam a smile he hopes is reassuring and gratefully takes the warm thermos with both hands, taking a gulp. The coffee burns his tongue, but he feels the warmth of the beverage waking him up. He stands and stretches and pulls on a Metallica tee and black sneakers before trailing after Sam out of the apartment and to the car.

          “Are you alright?” Sam asks, not looking up from the book in his lap.

          “What?” Dean asks, twisting the wheel to move the car around a particularly slow Oldsmobile.  

          “You were having another nightmare,” Sam says carefully, still not looking up.

          “I’m fine,” Dean grumbles, slight embarrassment coloring the tips of his ears red.

          There’s a beat of silence and Dean can almost feel the weight of the words on the tip of Sam’s tongue. Sam has always been one to confront problems head-on and talk through things. Dean, on the other hand, always kind of pushes his feelings down into the depths of his soul. Maybe if my feelings are ignored enough, they’ll disappear altogether. He doesn’t like talking about feelings and has never been as good at expressing himself as his little brother.

          “You know that you can tell me anything, right?” Sam finally looks up.

          Dean lets his eyes flit away from the busy road for a second and the sincerity on Sam’s face makes him turn away. “Yeah, I know,” he says as he cuts off a pickup to get to the exit lane.

          The rest of the drive is quiet and Dean is grateful for the silence. He wonders if Sam knows he’s not really a bartender, if the teenager has him figured out. _No_ , he shakes his head a little, _if he knew, we would have had a Gilmore-Girls-style heart-to-heart by now._ Dean pulls into the front drive of the high school behind five other cars of parents dropping off their kids. Sam stuffs his book into his backpack as the car slowly moves forwards, closer to the school’s main entrance. When they’re two cars away, Sam and Dean both see Jess standing to wait for Sam.

          “Tell me you’ve asked her out by _now_ ,” Dean groans playfully.

          Sam frowns and defensively says, “The timing wasn’t right…”

          “Oh my God,” Dean groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “You can’t just wait for the perfect time, Sam, or it’s never going to happen. You can’t keep putting it off.”

          Sam shoots Dean a bitchface and grumps, “You’re putting off asking out our neighbor.”

          Dean’s cheeks flush pink. “I’m not putting it off. I’m just not going to ask him out.”

          “Why not?”

          “Okay, we’re not talking about me,” Dean says. “Now go on, you’re making me late to work.”

          “Oh, Bobby won’t care,” Sam responds, but opens his door and steps out of the car.

****

          The day goes by slowly but also goes by all too fast.

          Dean shifts from his right foot to his left as he double checks the address on his phone with the one on the glass window in front of him. The Adolphus. Yup, this is the right place. He slips his cell into his suit jacket pocket before pushing open the large, wooden doors. He steps into the main lobby and takes in the polished marble, floral prints, and shining mahogany wood. Even dressed in his best—and only—suit, he still feels out of place here. As if everyone can see right through the cheap disguise and see the ugly underneath. He walks up to the main desk and waves awkwardly at the young woman behind it.

          “How may I help you today, sir?” she asks, sounding cheery, but looking bored.

          “Uhm, I’m here to meet someone in that restaurant…? The French Room?” Dean replies.

          “Alright, sir, follow me,” the woman says before leaving her post to lead Dean through the main room. Dean looks at paintings with gold frames and expensive-looking vases as they pass them. The woman finally stops, saying, “Here you are, sir.”

          Dean walks away from the woman to a woman in all black standing behind a small podium. “Reservation?” she asks crisply. Dean mutters the name “Alistair” unsurely. The woman’s brown eyes flit to her list then back to Dean. Her thin, maroon-painted lips spread into a false smile and she tells Dean, “Right this way.”

          Dean follows the slim woman around the dimly lit restaurant. It looks like a castle from a Disney movie Sam liked when he was five years old. _What was that movie? Oh, Beauty and the Beast,_ Dean thinks as he looks at the chandeliers dripping from the ceiling that is painted in golds, creams, and sky blue. He almost runs into the hostess when she stops abruptly in front of a small, round table near the back. “Here you are, sir,” she drones, gesturing to the empty chair.

          “Thank you,” Dean nods at the woman as she leaves before gazing at the man seated in the other chair.

          He’s lanky, but Dean can tell the man is strong and has lean muscle underneath the fabric of his grey, three-piece suit. Alistair’s dark brown hair is parted to the side and swept back and away from him face, but Dean can see the hair is almost too thin. He can’t be older than thirty-five. Dean stands beside the empty chair opposite his potential client, waiting for permission to sit. The man’s eyes sweep over Dean’s body hungrily as he threads his bony fingers together and Dean feels queasy momentarily.

          “Have a seat,” the man says in a nasally voice, unraveling his fingers to gesture at the chair across from him.

          Dean nods once, knowing that he is to remain silent. He lowers himself to a seat and shifts uneasily as Alistair stares. A waiter approaches, offering wine and Alistair accepts. The blood red drink is poured into both Dean’s and his potential client’s slender glasses and Dean almost says he doesn’t care for wine, but instead swallows the comment along with a sip of the dry, tart beverage. Alistair is staring at the liquid in his glass as he swirls it around and Dean is growing more and more uncomfortable as the silence between them stretches out. _Do not speak unless spoken to. You are their toy and they will decide whether or not to tug your pull-string._ Dean looks down at the silverware before him and swallows. He doesn’t know how to use this shit. _What if he thinks I’m unrefined and goes for someone with more classical training?_ Dean feels nerves pooling in the pit of his stomach and clawing their way through his mind. _I need this money. Sam needs this._

          “So, Dean.” Alistair sharply breaks off the silence. Dean looks up to meet the man’s gaze. Alistair’s eyes are brown with flecks of grey in them. They have a composed look, but there’s something underneath the calm color that Dean can’t quite read. “I assume Crowley has filled you in on my desired arrangement?”

          Dean tilts his head from one side to the other and states, “He went over it briefly. Just told me that you wanted to purchase me exclusively. Whenever, wherever, right?”

          Alistair’s thin lips press into a grin and he nods as the waiter returns. Alistair looks away from Dean and orders maple leaf farm's duck breast with something called foie gras confit. As the waiter turns towards Dean, Alistair says, “That will be all, sir,” and dismisses the young man with a flick of his thin wrist. The waiter looks at Dean with confusion before trailing off.

          “Yes, that’s right,” Alistair airily says in response to Dean’s earlier question. “I will text you a location—usually my apartment—along with a time and supplies and you are to come to me. Any time. Is that alright?”

          Dean opens his mouth to say that he has to be free at eight in the morning, but an icy look passes over Alistair’s face and Dean snaps his mouth shut. That was not a question. He nods once, responding in a neutral tone, “That’s fine.”

          “And did Crowley discuss payment?”

          Dean licks his lips and says, “He told me the average amount you were willing to give.”

          “How much did he say?”

          “One thousand five hundred every week I see you,” Dean uneasily responds, keeping his voice lowered.

          Alistair weaves his fingers together again, resting his chin on them. He doesn’t say anything for a beat and Dean hopes that Crowley hadn’t fucked up the price any. “That is correct.” Alistair says casually. “If you manage to please me with your work during a particular session, it may increase.”

     _Holy shit._

          The young waiter returns with a white plate, topped with a chunk of prepared brown meat, garnished with a drizzle of sauce and a green leaf of some sort and sets it before Alistair. “Will you be needing anything else, sir?” the waiter asks, eyes shifting from Alistair to Dean and back again.

          “No, that is all,” Alistair says.

          When the boy leaves, Alistair begins cutting into his meal. Dean sits and watches the man take a bite of the food, wondering about the nights to come. Sure, the guy isn’t completely unfortunate looking, but… _he’s not exactly my type._

_You make them your type._

          Dean shakes Crowley’s thick voice from his head, wishing the man across the table looked differently. He hates having to make people his type. He gazes down at the white tablecloth as Alistair slowly devours the plate of duck, feeling awkward and annoyed. He is a person and Alistair is already treating him like an object. Making him sit there with only shitty wine while he eats fancy-ass duck with whatever-confit. Dean sweeps the negative thoughts away. _It’s worth it._ Dean takes a deep breath, looking up to find Alistair gazing at him over the edge of his wine glass. Dean feels entrapped by the man’s gaze, unable to move or look away. After sipping the last of his wine, Alistair sets aside his glass and waves down the waiter with a flick of his hand. The boy returns to the table with the check in a small, leather folder.

          Alistair slips a large bill into the leather booklet and hands it back to the waiter, saying, “I will be texting you within the next day or so. I look forward to our next meeting.”

          Alistair stands and heads for the exit. As he passes where Dean is still sitting, he runs his bony fingers across Dean’s broad shoulder blades. Dean shudders, the affectionate gesture coming across colder than an ice storm. He watches as Alistair leaves the restaurant, hearing the man’s footsteps clacking away and wonders what he has gotten himself into.

****

Dean walks up the stairs to his apartment, arms full of plastic sacks from the supermarket. He went shopping straight after the dinner with Alistair, hoping the task would rid him of the anxiety he is experiencing from waiting for the aforementioned text. It hadn’t. He had fast-walked through the aisles and practically raced home, hoping the man wouldn’t call before he got his dairy products into the refrigerator. He reaches the landing and fumbles with his keys, realizing that carrying twelve bags at once had saved an extra trip to the car, but makes it impossible to unlock his door without setting down half of his bags. “Shit,” he curses under his breath as the keys fall from his hand and hit the faux-wood landing with a jingle.

          “Let me help you,” the gravelly voice to his right says over the rustle of plastic bags, startling Dean. He peers over a large bag of knock-off frosted mini wheats to see his hot neighbor appear in the light on the overhang.

          “Oh, uh, thanks,” Dean gruffly says as Castiel picks up the keys from the ground.

          “It’s no problem, Dean,” the man says calmly before reaching over and taking the bag of cereal out of Dean’s arms along with slipping three bags off Dean’s arm.

          “Uh, you don’t have to carry my bags, man,” Dean says, slightly flustered by how close Castiel is standing. “You can just… unlock the door if you want?”

          Castiel tilts his head to the right, looking at Dean with an adorable sort of puzzlement. “Why are you grocery shopping so late? And why are you in a suit?” he asks instead.

          “Uh, I had a meeting with a potential job and… It was a dinner thing so,” Dean shrugs, grateful that the sun is setting so that his blush is covered slightly. “And I still needed to go get stuff.”

          Castiel nods and pivots around to unlock the door. He steps inside and Dean follows him closely, kicking the door shut behind him. “Kitchen’s to your right.”

          “I see that,” Castiel’s voice rumbles and Dean can’t tell whether the man is being snarky or not.

          Dean and Castiel are setting the bags on the kitchen counter when Sam yells from his side of the apartment, “Did ya get my cereal?”

          “Yes, I got it,” Dean replies loudly, turning back to see Castiel standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding the bag of cereal. “Thanks, Castiel, but you don’t have to help me put all this crap away.”

          “Well, I never got you a muffin basket, so I feel as though I owe it to you to help you in some way,” Castiel says, placing the bag next to the coffee maker by the identical bag of cereal that is almost empty.

          Dean screws his face up in confusion and is about to ask what are you talking about, but Sam is grumbling “Did you get milk, too? Because last time you forgot,” as he turns into the kitchen. Upon seeing Castiel, Sam’s annoyed face morphs into a shit-eating grin.

          Dean scowls at his brother as Sam looks from Dean to where Castiel stands behind him. “Sam, this is our neighbor, Castiel.” Dean’s voice is controlled and he hopes the glare he’s giving Sam will scare the teen enough so that he isn’t a freaking pest.

          “Hey, Castiel,” Sam says, stepping past Dean and extending a hand. “I’m Dean’s brother, Sam.”

          “Hello, Sam,” Castiel says, lips tilting up into a small sort-of smile as he reaches forward and clasps Sam’s hand in his own before releasing it.

          “What’re you up to?” Sam snoops, making his voice sound innocent.

          “I am helping your brother put away the groceries,” Castiel says matter-of-factly, inspecting the back of a box of New Orleans-style rice.

          “Did Dean finally get up the courage to talk to you?” Sam says, eyebrows raised.

          Dean feels his face grow hot and he glares down at Sam as Castiel looks at him questioningly. “I-It… I dropped my damn keys. And he offered to help. Because we never got a muffin basket..?” Dean flounders, feeling self-conscious and annoyed and embarrassed.

          “What?” Sam asks as he picks out an apple from one of the grocery sacks. “A muffin basket?”

          “I heard it’s a, uh, tradition to greet new neighbors by giving them a gift. A woman once gave me a muffin basket,” Castiel explains as he unpacks a gallon of milk and transports it from the sack to the Winchester’s refrigerator.

          “Oh, okay… It’s been a year, dude. Don’t you think it’s kinda late for a ‘Welcome-to-the-Neighborhood’ party?” Dean states, getting a look of desperation from Sam.

          Castiel looks at his feet, arms falling limply to his sides as he closes the fridge. He looks thoughtful before he lifts his face and states plainly, “Well, if you haven’t noticed, I don’t really have friends around here and I thought that we could become friends. You seem interesting.”

          Dean’s lips turn up slightly. _Okay, he’s a little weird, but… I like this guy._ He ducks his head, hiding the smile from the room. “Well, alright,” he says after a beat. “I mean, I’m not that interesting, so prepare to be disappointed.”

          “Your weird ass bartending hours are interesting.” Sam scoffs with a somewhat knowing look.

          “It’s a weird bar, I guess” Dean huffs defensively before saying, “Help us put away this stuff or I’m not making you dinner. You’ll have to have cereal.”

          “I like cereal.” Sam retorts before asking, “You’re gonna cook dinner? No work?”

          “Nope. I got tonight off for once,” Dean lies smoothly.

          “Cool,” Sam huffs, taking a loud bite of his apple.

          Castiel watches the exchange and Dean begins instructing him as to where to put the soup cans. At first, the trio put the groceries away silently. Dean often sneaks peeks at Castiel and looks away quickly whenever his neighbor catches him. Sam’s eyes flit between the two as he carries items to the fridge, giving Dean suggestive looks every few seconds. Dean scowls at his little brother as he takes off his suit jacket and sets it on the counter.  Dean squats to shove a box of Ramen Noodle packages in one of the bottom drawers of the cabinet.

          “So, Castiel, are you dating anyone?” Sam asks casually.

          Dean jerks his head up, smacking it against the kitchen cabinet with a loud ‘crack’. Castiel and Sam look over to Dean worriedly as he presses a hand to the top of his cranium and groans. “Are you alright, Dean?” Castiel’s voice is tinged with concern.

          “I’m peachy-keen,” Dean murmurs, standing up from his squatting position, hand still caressing his head.

          “Would you like me to take a look?” Castiel offers, stepping towards him.

          “It’s just a bump, Cas. No biggie,” Dean shrugs one shoulder.

          “Cas..?” Castiel queries, saying the nickname slowly as if he were tasting it on his tongue.

          “Uh, yeah, uhm, is it cool if I call you Cas?” Dean rambles, blushing at his slip-up. “I mean, I can call you Castiel if you want, but it’s sort of a mouthful.”

          Castiel smirks, tilting his head to one side as he looks at Dean. “You may call me Cas,” he replies, voice giving away no emotion.

          Dean nods once as he smashes together the empty plastic sacks in a large wad and walks them to the trash can. “Well, uh, groceries are put away…” he states awkwardly. “Thank you, Cas.”

          “It’s no trouble,” Castiel says softly as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his scrub pants and toes the linoleum floor. “And, no, Sam. I’m not currently seeing anyone.” he answers the teen’s previous question with a small smirk, looking at Dean briefly, but long enough for Dean to fluster like a spaz.

          “Wanna hang out for a bit?” Sam pipes up. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, so I don’t have school and Dean doesn’t work at the shop, so we can stay up.”

          “You work at a shop?” Castiel asks as he looks at Dean. “An automotive repairs shop?”

          “Yep,” Dean nods, ears tinging red slightly. He waits for the judgmental look to cross Castiel’s face, but it doesn’t come.

          Instead, Castiel turns to Sam and sighs, “I would love to hang around with you two, but unfortunately I have a board meeting in the morning.”

          “Board meeting?” Dean asks, walking with Castiel towards the door.

          “Yes, at Guardian Hospital,” Castiel replies and Dean can feel himself pulling back slightly.

         _He is out of my league._

          “You’re a doctor?” Dean asks, suddenly noticing Castiel’s plain, white tee and scrub pants. Dean crosses his arms loosely over his chest as he asks the question. He feels Sam coming to stand beside him.

          Castiel’s lips twitch as if he’s about to smile as he shakes his head, “Nurse. I’m only required to attend the meeting because my father is the Chief of Surgery there and he wants to ‘show me the ropes.’”

           _So far out of my league._

          Dean nods, looking at the floor for a second. _I can’t believe I actually thought I might have a shot with someone like him._ He forces a smile on his face and looks up at Castiel again, reaching around him to pull open the front door. “Well. Sorry to have taken up your time tonight,” he says, ignoring the confused look that is so not cute that passes over his neighbor’s features. “But thanks for the help, man.”

          “You’re welcome, Dean,” Castiel replies as he steps out into the dark, cold night. “I’ll, uh, see you around?”

          “Sure,” Dean says at the same time Sam replies with an over-enthusiastic, “Come by anytime!”

          A millisecond after Dean pushes the door closed, Sam is in his face. “What the hell, Dean?”

          “What?” Dean scoffs, brushing past Sam to the kitchen.

          “Why did you do that?” Sam asks, gesturing to the door as he follows his big brother.

          “I didn’t do anything.”

          “Right. You practically shoved him out the door! You were so rude!”

          “The guy was busy! He has big, important things to do! He didn’t want to stay here and hang around with a guy with a GED and his twerpy little brother.”

          “Is that what this is about?” Sam asks. “You think he’s too good for you?”

          “I know he’s too good for me.”

          Sam scoffs before saying, “Why do you think he’s too good for you?”

          “Seriously? Are you asking me this question? Wasn’t it obvious?” Dean exclaims, turning to face Sam. “Dude’s a nurse! He saves lives for a living and makes big bucks off it. Plus, he obviously comes from a family with some money with a dad as the chief. And what am I? A dirty mechanic and a-a bartender.”

          “So, this is about _money_?” Sam looks astounded.

          “No! Yes.” Dean fumbles, hands flying in odd gestures. “And status. And he is a better person than I am.”

          “He is not a better person.”

          Dean scoffs this time, rolling his eyes and walking out of the kitchen. Of course, Sam follows, stating, “And none of that stuff matters! If you like him and he likes you, then you see past insignificant differences like money and jobs.”

          _I highly doubt anyone would want to date me knowing that I’m screwing other people for money._ Dean wants to say this just to shut Sam up. To prove his point. To show his little brother that maybe he shouldn’t look up to his big brother as much as he does. Instead he just grumbles, “He’s probably straight anyways.”

          Sam sighs and he looks up at Dean in a loving and bless-your-dumb-heart sort of way. “He is so not straight! And he was totally into you!”

          Dean rolls his eyes, but smiles fondly at his little brother. The teenager is almost Dean’s height now; he began sprouting up like a beanpole the last six months and Dean is—grudgingly—willing to bet Sam will surpass him in height. “Alright,” Dean relents, calming his brother who is too willing to defend Dean, even if it’s from his own self-deprecating views. “Maybe he isn’t one-hundred-percent straight. And maybe he kinda likes me. Even if that’s so, I have no time for a relationship between the shop and the bar and being Mama-Bird to you.”

          “I’m eighteen, Dean. I don’t need a Mama-Bird.”

          “You’re breaking my heart, Sammy, you know that, right?” Dean teases with a big grin.

          Sam rolls his eyes again, but laughs as he does so. “Well, you’re off tomorrow, right?”

          “I mean, I guess. This new job may call me in anytime…” Dean replies, stripping himself of his overcoat and beginning to unbutton his shirt and ignoring the skeptical look on Sam’s face.

          “Well, why don’t you invite him to lunch or dinner? You could make your delicious burgers, we can see if he really does like you, and I can make sure he’s got good intentions.” They both share a laugh over that.

          “Are you just doing this because you want burgers?”

          Sam shrugs. “I mean, your happiness is what matters to me. If I happen to get burgers in the process, I’m not complaining.” He teases before getting serious again. “Seriously, man, you haven’t been with anyone in a while and I’m sorry if that’s my fault. I know that with Lisa—“

          Dean lifts his hand, palm forwards with a shake of his head. “Not your fault. It’s just… I haven’t met anyone, okay?” he says and adds, for Sam’s sake, “But if Castiel fits the bill, then I will be happy to rearrange my schedule to fit dating in.”

          Dean pulls on a threadbare Led-Zeppelin tee and some blue jeans before walking past Sam to the kitchen. “Are you going to invite him or not?” Sam asks, on his heels like a spoiled pomeranian.

          “What? Now?” Dean asks as he pulls open the fridge and surveys the sparse selection.

          “Yes, now.” Sam rolls his eyes. “You can’t just go tomorrow and invite him right before dinner. You gotta give him time to prepare.”

          “Sam, it’s just gonna be a casual dinner thing, not a five-star meal at the Four Seasons.”

          “Dean, stop being such a baby about this!”

          “Ohmygod, okay. I’m going. But you have to text Jessica and invite her.”

          Sam’s face reddens, but he doesn’t back down. “Deal.”

****

          Dean leans into his apartment from where he stands on the small balcony to see the time on the clock. Five-twenty. Ten minutes until Castiel and Jessica show up. _This is stupid. This tiny ass grill is stupid. He probably has a Capital Precision grill and I have… this._ Dean toes the small, black grill that is maybe as tall as his knees. Maybe. He sighs, breathing in the smell of charcoal and fire and feeling the cold air nip at his forearms where his flannel overshirt’s sleeves have been rucked up. He doesn’t stay pouty long because Sam bought him this grill last Christmas and, sure, it was inexpensive, but it was nice. His lips turn upward at the memory and he picks up his long-neglected bottle of water. He takes a pull and really wishes he were downing a beer or whiskey or something that would calm his nerves. He wants this to go well for Sam and Jessica.

He also really hopes he doesn’t look like a dumbass in front of his super-hot-but-totally-unattainable neighbor. Dean perks up at the sound of the front door squeaking open and he checks the coals before peeking into the apartment.

          “Hey, Dean,” Sam says as he walks into the living room with a blonde girl trailing behind. “Jess is here.”

          “Hey, Jess,” Dean greets the girl, raising his bottle of water in a sort-of salute. “Sam says you’re too good to eat burgers?”

          “Well, no, I’m just a vegetarian. I don’t think I’m better than anyone.” Jessica is saying as she fiddles with her small box labelled “tofu burgers”; Dean shakes his head with a chuckle.

          “Woah, woah, woah, I was just kidding. I don’t care if you bring your tofu burgers; just means there’s more meat for me.” he smiles at the young girl, hoping he didn’t offend her with his attempt at a joke.

          “Oh,” she says with a laugh, brushing her hair back. She offers Dean her box of fake meat and he takes it. Sam gives Dean a slight bitchface before exchanging smiles with Jess and trailing back into the living room to the couch, where they begin talking in hushed tones.

          Dean pads in his sock feet from the perfectly heated grill outside to where his meat patties are made up on a dented cookie sheet in the kitchen. He carries the tin of raw patties, a large plate, and spatula out, setting it all on the cheap, plastic patio table before squatting down to place three plain patties on the grill to cook. He is replacing the lid to the grill when he is startled by a deep voice, “Hello, Dean.”

          “Cas!” he stands erect, letting the lid fall shut the rest of the way. “Uh, hey, what’re you doing here?”

          Castiel looks confused as he says, “I came for dinner. You invited me.”

          Dean’s face is red. “Yeah, yeah, no, sorry… I mean, what’s up?” he asks, toying with his oven mitt.

          Castiel’s mouth quirks up a little before he says, “I just got off work. I, uh, wasn’t sure if I should bring anything, so I just brought drinks.” Castiel lifts up a six pack of beer that Dean had not noticed until this moment.

          “Oh, uh, yeah, that’s alright,” he replies after a beat, looking from the glass bottles back to his neighbor’s face. “Uh, may I..?” he asks, gesturing to the drinks.

          “Of course,” Castiel nods as he steps out onto the patio with Dean, the air ruffling his hair. He sets the case of beer on the small patio table before plucking two out. He holds one out to Dean and their fingers brush as Dean takes it. Dean focuses his attention on uncapping the drink before taking a long pull. Okay, much better than water. So much better. He takes another drink; half of his beer gone in less than a minute.

          “What are we having tonight?” Castiel asks, nodding towards the small grill as he twists off his beer’s top.

          “Burgers,” Dean shrugs, squatting down to lift the lid and check on his patties. He sees it’s about time to flip them and looks up to Castiel. “Can you hand me the spatula? It’s on top of the tofu box.”

          Castiel nods once, handing the utensil over to Dean before asking, “Are you vegan?”

          Dean laughs as he flips each burger easily. “Nah, those are for Sammy’s friend. I couldn’t do tofu.”

          Castiel nods and leans back against the railing of the balcony, crossing one ankle over the other. Dean looks at the man’s legs, resisting the urge to lick his lips. He looks back to his small grill, toying with the burgers for another few seconds before replacing the lid. The silence stretches out between him and his neighbor and he downs the rest of his beer in one swallow. He wishes he could say something, but he has two options: A) be himself and probably wind up embarrassing himself or B) whip out his prostitution charm and probably wind up freaking Castiel out. He opens his mouth to say something when Sam pokes his head out the glass sliding door.

        “How long on the food?” his brother whines.

        “Few more minutes,” Dean says, grateful for the interruption because he had been dangerously close to discussing the weather. “You can get the vegetables and stuff outta the fridge and onto the table?”

          “Okay,” Sam says and Dean doesn’t miss his little brother’s gaze landing on the empty bottle beside him before he ducks back inside.

          “How long have you been raising him?” Castiel’s question catches Dean off-guard. He looks up to meet Castiel’s gaze, but the other man is looking through the sliding door into the living and dining room of his apartment.

          “Uh, well, we’ve been on our own here for two years now, but it was kinda always my job to take care of Sam,” he says gruffly, pressing down on the three patties before standing and reaching around Castiel to grab the serving plate from under the tray that contains the last two raw patties.

          “That must be challenging,” Castiel says as Dean relocates the three cooked patties to the plate.

          “Eh, it has it’s perks,” Dean jokes as he grabs the box of tofu burgers and his cookie sheet and takes them to the grill. He sets the last two patties and a tofu patty on the grill before putting down the hood.

          Once all the burgers are done, Dean brings the serving plate inside. Sam smiles broadly, almost drooling as the burgers are set in the remaining space on the table. Sam and Jess take their seats in the two black chairs, leaving one white chair. Castiel raises an eyebrow as Dean gestures for him to sit down. “I’ll get a chair off the balcony,” he says. Dean returns from the balcony with the chair in one hand and Castiel’s case of beer in the other. He hands one to Castiel and pops the top off another bottle for himself before pulling his plastic lawn chair up to the table. He pretends to ignore Sam’s big-fat, I’m-watching-you Mom-face.

          They begin building their burgers, Sam snagging two patties for himself faster than a speeding bullet. Castiel looks a little hesitant to reach across the table, as if fearful to accidentally knock elbows with anyone, and Dean takes it upon himself to pass things to Cas whenever he gets them. Discussion starts flowing as people smear mustard or mayo on their buns. Castiel picks up his burger for the first time, after meticulously adding vegetables, and Dean finds himself hoping that his neighbor likes what he prepared. Castiel takes a bite and moans as he chews it. Sam and Jess are too busy chatting to notice, but the noise goes straight to Dean’s downstairs brain. He averts his eyes, taking a large swallow of beer.

          “This is delicious,” Castiel compliments after swallowing his first bite.

          “I know, right?” Sam pipes up around his own mouthful of burger. And, thank God, Sam’s voice kind of kills the awkward boner Dean’s body was prepping. “Dean’s a genius at grilling. He’s the best.”

          “I’m not the best. I’m alright,” Dean scoffs, picking at a piece of lettuce.

          “Well, you cooked my tofu patty perfectly,” Jessica compliments. “Most people grill them too long.”

          “Thank you, little lady,” Dean says to the teenager.

          “It is one of the best burgers I’ve had,” Castiel says.

          “You’ve only had one bite, Cas,” Dean points out. “The rest could suck big time.”

          Castiel shrugs, taking another large bite instead of responding.

          Most of the discussion is dominated by Sam and Jessica and their stories from high school, but Dean doesn’t mind. He likes watching Cas laugh whenever Sam tells the story of how he and his best friend Kevin were planning on pulling off “the greatest senior prank ever” until Kevin got cold feet and is now raising five small chickens in his backyard, much to his mother’s distress. They all talk about how cold it’s getting and how they hope it actually snows this winter instead of just icing over and about homework, Dean’s mechanic job, and Castiel offers up a few stories from the hospital.

          Jessica looks at her phone as she sets down her glass of tea. “Hey, if we wanna see that movie, we better leave now.” she says to Sam, pushing herself away from the table to stand.

           “Oh, yeah, alright,” Sam nods, rising from his seat, too.

          “Wait, what movie?” Dean asks, setting down the remaining half of his burger.

          “Me and Jess are gonna go see that movie about the guy in the army,” Sam says, picking up his and Jessica’s plates with a casual shrug, but the glint in his eyes is mischievous. “Ya’ll enjoy your burgers.”

          “Hey, I’m gonna go start my car so it gets warm!” Jessica says, skipping out the door. “Thanks for the dinner, Dean.”

          Dean glares up at Sam before he stands with his own plate and nearly-empty beer bottle. He follows Sam into the kitchen where they throw away their plates. Sam eyes the remaining alcohol sloshing in the bottle. Dean rolls his eyes, drinking what’s left before discarding the bottle in the trash.

          “Don’t drink too much.” Sam says in a hushed tone, voice serious.

          “ _Oh my gosh_ Sam, I’m not gonna get drunk.”

          Bitchface.

          “I’m not!” Dean says quietly. “Besides, it takes way more than three beers to do me in.”

          Sam doesn’t laugh at Dean’s attempt at making light of the situation. “I know. Just… Maybe don’t drink the third?”

          “Alright, Mom,” Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I have the chips to prove it.”

          “Well, those chips also mean you aren’t supposed to drink anymore. Like, at all.”

          “Oh my-- Sam. One every now and then is not going to make me go back to what I was, okay?” Dean sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

          “I know, but--Okay, see ya later!” Sam’s voice lilts before he swoops out of the kitchen and through the front door.

          Dean sighs again, turning around and-- “Shit!” he jumps, startled by how close Castiel is. The other man tilts his head to the side. “Cas, you’re kinda in my bubble.”

          “What?” Castiel’s head dips further to the side, reminiscent of a puppy when they hear a high-pitched noise.

          “Uh, my bubble-- personal space?” Dean explains, but making no move to get further from Castiel. Castiel steps back and Dean goes back to the small table, picking up all the trash. Castiel helps by gathering the condiments and vegetables that remained. Dean remembers his and Sam’s conversation, asking, “Uh, did you hear… any of that?”

          “Any of what?”

          Dean dumps the trash in the now-full trash can as Castiel pulls open the refrigerator, feeling super awkward as he replies, “What me and Sam were talking about?”

          “Oh, uh, yes,” Castiel says, not looking up from putting his armful of things on the shelves of the fridge.

          “Oh,” Dean coughs, feeling super exposed and ashamed.

          Castiel stands, closing the fridge door and looks at Dean. “I apologize for bringing alcohol, I didn’t know that--”

          “Not your fault.” Dean says, holding out a hand to halt the apology. “I, uh, I used to be… pretty bad.”

          He doesn’t know why he’s telling this to Castiel. They’ve only just met a few days ago, but… He looks up from his shoes at the blue-eyed man. I think I trust him… He shakes his head, walking back to the table and grabbing the patio chair. Castiel follows Dean back out onto the balcony, sitting in the other plastic chair after Dean sets his by the table and takes a seat in it. They sit silently in the cool, autumn air, looking out at the lights of the city, blinking in front of the orange and yellow painted sky.

          “I started drinking when I was eighteen, I guess. I had a lot of stuff going on and… it seemed to take the edge off, ya know?” Dean starts babbling, still not knowing why he’s sharing this with Castiel.

          “You don’t have to tell me this if you don’t want to.” Castiel offers, looking at Dean.

          Dean nods and yeah, he could shut up or he could talk this out and scare off Castiel. And since he doesn’t deserve someone as good as Castiel, he continues, “Yeah, well… I just need to talk this out a little, I think.

          So, I kind of didn’t know who I was. I was--I knew there was something wrong with me throughout high school, but I couldn’t accept it. So, I started drinking. Which led to me to getting drunk. Which led to me coming out. And then my dad kicked me out. Which led to more drinking and Sam getting worried and AA and here I am.” he doesn’t look at Castiel, waiting for the man’s reaction.

          “I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel says softly. “Can I ask… What was wrong with you?”

          “Did you miss that part? I came out. As in, I’m… Not completely straight.” Dean struggles with the words, not wanting to say ‘bisexual’.

          “There is nothing wrong with that.” Castiel says defensively.

          “Well, that’s not what I’ve heard,”

          “Well, I’m sorry about that, but there is nothing wrong with your sexuality. Regardless of how you did it, it is a very brave thing to do. Coming out, that is. How did you go about it?”

          “What?” Dean asks, tensing up.

          “I could tell you my coming out story first, if you would like.”

          “Wait. You’re…?”

          “Gay? Very much so.” Castiel nods, holding Dean’s wide-eyed gaze a little too long.

          “Oh.” And Dean’s head is suddenly full of television static.

          “I was… Sixteen, I believe?” Castiel scrunches his face as he tries to remember. “I saw a boy at school and I remember I was attracted to him and I remember thinking all day of how I had never once been attracted to a female. I thought there was something wrong with me, as well… I stressed about it for a week. My father was a pastor at the time and… I was unsure how my family would take it. I failed tests, didn’t eat, cried… And, obviously, my parents noticed. So, I told them and…” A laugh escapes Castiel’s pink lips which is odd to Dean that coming out to his parents is a memory that incites laughter.

          “What?” Dean presses, eyebrow arched.

          “I was so stressed that the second I came out, I vomited all over my mother’s shoes.” Castiel laughs loudly, clutching his stomach. “It was… Oh, it was awful. I was just crying and throwing up and my father was consoling me and my mother was trying not to get sick herself as she also tried to calm me down…”

          Dean smiles, picturing it in his mind’s eye. “That’s awful, like, really gross.” he chuckles.

          “I know,” Cas giggles, wiping his eyes.

          “But… your parents didn’t care..?” Dean asks skeptically.

          “Oh, my parents cared. A little too much. My mother was incessantly saying she ‘always knew’ and my father joined the nearest LGBT-Allies organization. It was all very overwhelming.”

          “Oh, well, that’s great,” Dean says honestly. It was good to hear that not all parents are great big bags of dicks.

          “Wait… Your dad kicked you out? _Because_  you're gay?” Castiel asks, eyebrows shooting up.

          “Well, I’m actually… I’m bi.” Dean says, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees and hands wringing together. He looks to Castiel and the man is frowning over at him. “But, yeah. He… didn’t support that so much.”

          _“You’re a fag?!”_

_“I mean, uh, I’m… bisexual, sir. It’s different.”_

_“I’m not having a cocksucker for a son! I didn’t raise you to do this!”_

_“You didn’t raise me at all!”_

_“Get the fuck out of my house!”_

_“But, Dad--!”_

_Knuckles connect with an eye socket. Sam screams out Dean’s name._

_“Why would you do this to me?”_

_A fist connects with a stomach. Dean doubles over, gulping like a fish out of water. A knee smashes into his cheekbone. Tears spring into Dean’s eyes upon contact and he hauls himself upright._

_“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Dad!”_

_Afist to the mouth. His lip is busted. He keeps apologizing, on a loop. A broken record. Nothing softens his father’s blows. His wrist is grabbed and twisted sideways for a punch dealt to his ear. He wrenches himself free. Fistfuls of his shirt are grabbed and he is forced to the front door._

_“Where do I go?”_

_“I don’t care. You walk out that door right now and don’t you ever come back.”_

           Dean frowns, hands clenching at the unwanted memory. “So, the old man kicked me out.” he says with a shrug. “Luckily Sam snuck me a few twenties out the window and I grabbed a taxi and stayed with my Uncle Bobby for a few weeks. Then, a year later, Sammy ran away and… Bobby didn’t have the room. So, we moved here.”

           _Do not get sentimental with them. They just want to fuck and run. No one cares about your sob story._

           “I’m sorry, Dean.” Castiel’s voice is soft.

Dean shrugs his shoulders again, gazing out at the buildings. “My dad had a tough life. He… He did his best.”

           Castiel’s frown deepens and his lips purse, looking like he’s going to say something, but at the last minute, he changes his mind. Instead he relaxes in the chair, sinking down and stretching his legs out before him, crossing his right over left and tilting his head back and closing his eyes. After a beat, he says, “Well, for what it’s worth, I support you coming out.”

           Dean looks over at Castiel and snorts out a laugh.

           Castiel turns away from Dean, looking out over the balcony for a long while before he says, “Thank you, Dean.”

         “For what?”

         “For inviting me over tonight. It was… nice.” Castiel says, pausing before he continues, “I hope we can get together again soon.”

         “Yeah, Cas, whenever both of us are free, we can get together and I can ramble about my life some more,” Dean jokes as he smiles over at the man, genuinely happy that Sam forced him into this sort-of cook-out thing. He turns back towards the faraway lights of the city against the indigo sky and pretends-- just for a second-- that he could have moments like this for the rest of his life.

****

           “You didn’t kiss? Or make any move at all?” Sam is groaning over his piece of peanut butter and banana toast the next morning.

           Dean scrunches up his nose at the kid’s choice of breakfast before replying, “No, I didn’t. We just met, Sam. He could be a psychopath for all I know. I’m not gonna just ask him out the minute I meet him.”

           “You did with Lisa,” Sam grumbles, taking a large bite of his sticky breakfast.

           Dean sighs over his mug of coffee, causing the rising steam to swirl and ripple. “Sam, that was, like, two years ago. I was dumb and naïve.”

           Sam rolls his eyes. “No, Dean, Lisa was just a bitch.”

           Dean nods and takes a large gulp of coffee, scorching his tongue. He coughs a little and says, “You were right, though. He is totally gay.”

           “I freaking told you so.”

          “Don’t be a brat, Sam.”

           That earns him a tongue stuck out in his direction. Dean chuckles around his next sip of coffee, grabbing his cell phone from where he had left it charging on the counter the night before. No texts-- thank God. He goes to his Dallas Newspaper app and glances over the classifieds, looking for a possible temp job like someone needing something fixed or built. Nada. He swallows the last of his coffee, closing the application before tapping the Allrecipes app that he so didn’t install on purpose with his thumb, hoping to find something to make that included the cauliflower Sam insisted he buy. As he is scrolling through recipes, a notification pings on his phone, sliding down from the top.

           “Why are you making that face?” Sam’s question startles Dean and he realizes he has a big, probably goofy, smile on his face.

           He frowns deeply, huffing, “Whaddya mean?”

           “You’re a terrible liar.”

           “I am not. I’m actually a fantastic liar. I told you your hair looked good two years ago and you believed me.” Dean snarks, closing out of his recipe app.

           “Castiel texted you, didn’t he?”

           “No. Why would you even think that? That’s stupid.”

           “Ohmygod he did. Lemme see!”

           The next two minutes is composed of Sam dropping the crust of his eaten toast and wrapping his long-ass, monkey arms and legs around Dean as they wrestle for the cell phone that Dean holds up over his head in a poor attempt to keep it away. “Get off me!” Dean is yowling as Sam launches himself up to grab Dean’s forearm, jerking it roughly. They scramble a few more seconds and Dean tries to keep his cell phone safe, but dammit, Sam is more persistent than a coyote trying to get out of a bear trap. The teen has Dean’s cell in his hands as he scurries to the other side of the kitchen, holding the screen to his face as he reads the text aloud, “Good morning, Dean. I enjoyed last night and thought I would return the favor by having you and your brother over for dinner at my place one night this week, if you would like? Let me know when you are free so we can set a date.”

           Dean snatches the phone from Sam’s hands, ignoring the snickers he gets.

           “He likes you, Dean.” Sam sing-songs.

           “What are you, thirteen? He’s just being a neighbor.”

           “He wants to cook you dinner! He said ‘set a _date_!’”

          “That just means he wants to pick a day. Besides, if he wanted it to be a date, why would he invite my pesky kid brother?”

           Sam just shrugs one shoulder as he scoops up the abused bread crusts from the floor and tosses it into the trash. He wanders out of the kitchen, singing, “Dean and Castiel sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G…”

           Dean runs a hand down his face before reading over the text for himself. Okay, be cool. Don’t be a dork. “Hey Cas buddy! Last night was awesome!” Buddy. Cas _buddy_?! _Why. Why did I press send? Why do I do this to myself?_ He groans aloud, wanting to throw his phone into a dark abyss.

           His phone pings in his hand and he doesn’t want to read the message because Castiel probably thinks he’s a fucking dork. But all Castiel says is, “Yes, it was. Can you do dinner anytime this week? And do you or Sam have any food allergies I should know about?”

           Dean feels that goofy smile on his lips again because he can practically hear Castiel’s voice and the dryness of the response. He thinks over his weekly calendar, biting his lip in thought. He works at the shop Monday through Friday, as usual. He knows he has one appointment with a regular of his, Gordon, on Tuesday night and a doctor’s appointment for a physical on Wednesday… He taps out that he can do Thursday or Friday night and Castiel’s reply comes in seconds after Dean had sent his.

           “Thursday night is good for me. I’ll see you then.”

           The rest of Dean’s Sunday goes by too fast. He’s glad he gets this day off, though, because it is so rare that he gets a day to do nothing and have nowhere to be and no one to please. He stays in his pajama pants and a ratty, Metallica tee all day; leaving the patio door open because it’s a perfect seventy-degree day with a slight Northerly breeze. He uses his day off to hang out on the couch and help Sam with a science project and fall asleep in his brother’s floor halfway through and go out onto the balcony to read and fall asleep as the cool breeze thumbs through the pages of his copy of _Slaughterhouse 5_. He wakes up to a hand shaking his shoulder and opens his eyes to see it’s gotten late and that Sam’s concerned face is hovering above his. Dean had the nightmare again. And Sam standing over him with that kicked-puppy look meant that he knew Dean had had the nightmare again. Dean sighs, scooting back in the plastic patio chair, his book falling from his lap onto the cement floor. He presses the heels of his palms against his closed eyes, mashing until specks of light burst before his eyelids.

           “What’d you hear?” he asks, knowing that-- if the dream is vivid enough-- he tends to talk in his sleep.

           “Dean…”

           “What did you hear?” Dean interrupts, removing his hands and looking up at Sam with all the intensity he can muster.

           Sam presses his lips together to form a thin line before he responds. “You were saying something about Azazel again.” His brows are furrowed and Dean can feel Sam trying to gauge his reaction to the name.

           He shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet. “Don’t know who that is.” he lies, bending down to pluck up his book.

           “Dean, you can talk to me.” Sam says, anger making the words sharp. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

          “Sam, really, I don’t know why I dream this stuff. Probably ‘cuz I watch too much crappy TV at the bar.”

           “Dean, please, we can get you help if you just talk to me!”

           “You think I need a shrink telling me I’m fucked up?” Dean spins on his heels to snap at his brother. “Newsflash! I already know that!”

           “That’s not what I meant!” Sam yells right back. And Dean knows where this is going because they’ve had this argument before already. “Let me help you! Talk to me!”

           And he wants to open up to someone about this nightmare-- this memory-- but that would mean talking about his real job. And yeah, he wants to open up about that shit, too, but he can’t. He can’t because it will ruin everything and Sam will hate him and his father will have been right about him and he’ll lose what few friends he has and so he can’t. He sets his jaw and takes a deep breath through his nose to calm himself down. “Just.. I’m tired.” he tells Sam. “Can I just go to bed?”

           Sam stares at him long and hard, but finally says, “Yeah, sure.”

           So, Dean retreats to his room to replay the medley of memories in his head. The nightmares usually consist of flashes of memories he has accumulated. Some are about his father and that first beating he had received upon coming out… The brutality of it and the emptiness in his father’s eyes as he delivered each blow. Other dreams are just remixes of bad clients he has had over the time he has been working at the Firefly Inn… Azazel, though, had been Dean’s first gig before he had been employed by Crowley. Azazel had been cruel and harsh and uncaring. He had fucked Dean in an alley behind a Denny’s for fifty bucks before beating the shit out of him for ‘being a twink and a whore.’ Dean curls into a ball on his bed, remembering how it felt to be left bleeding and exposed in the dirty alley. His nightmares are usually about Azazel. The bed suddenly feels too big. Lonely like being adrift at sea. He breathes in deep, filling the hollow cavern of his chest and reminds himself that Azazel is long gone. In the past. The first stain. He drifts to sleep, but in this version of the nightmare, Alistair is shoving him into the alley.

****

           Monday and Tuesday are filled with anxiety as Dean awaits the text that doesn’t come. He is so out of it that he can barely focus on his work at the shop. On Wednesday, he tightens bolts and nuts, hoping that Alistair doesn’t call him in during any of his shifts at the shop. He enjoys fixing cars, plus Bobby would be pissed if Dean up and left in the middle of replacing a transmission without any kind of excuse. He wipes his forearm across his forehead, removing the buildup of perspiration as he stares up at the underside of the vehicle. This is simple. Easy. Find the broken part, remove it, and replace it. Orders and wrenches and elbow grease. Easy. Dean rolls out from under the car when his phone begins chiming its alarm tone. He looks at the phone screen and sees it is two-thirty already. He finds a stopping point in his work and heads to the office to clock out.

           “You alright?” Bobby asks, not looking up from his copy of Outdoor Life magazine.

           Dean swipes his card and the machine beeps. “Yeah, I’m good,” he says as he replaces his card in its slot.

           “So, this doctor’s appointment ain’t nothing I should worry about, is it?” Bobby questions, finally looking up at Dean from under his ball cap.

           Dean waves a hand dismissively. “No, everything’s alright. Just a check-up.”

           Bobby scowls up at him, a way he expresses how much he cares. “You take care of yourself, Dean. Get some rest. Can’t have my best mechanic getting sick.”

           Dean huffs a laugh, patting his boss on the shoulder. “Alright, alright,” he says over his shoulder as he heads out the back door.

           Dean waits until his name is called and heads down the familiar white hallway and through the first wood door on the left into the room decorated with an abstract painting. Turquoise and lavender and mint green splashed on the white canvas. He pops up to sit upon the small examination table, the white paper crinkling as he shifts atop it. After one minute, a man with close-cropped brown hair and two-day-old scruff comes through the door in a white coat. “Hello, brother,” the doctor greets him with a fond smile. “Long time no see.”

          “Hey, Benny,” Dean greets with a wave of one hand.

           “We just checking for the usual?” Benny asks, setting aside his clipboard.

           Dean nods his head, folding his hands in his lap.

           “Alright, you know the drill,” Benny says as he grabs gloves from the dispenser on the wall.

           Dean isn’t shy about removing his pants and underwear in front of Benny as they do this every two months. He had met Benny in a bar one year ago, the doctor had saved him from a fight behind a bar with a John who didn’t want to pay. Dean had been nineteen and was still trying to work on his own still and, when Benny offered to stitch up the deep gash on his head and check for other injuries pro-bono, Dean had snatched the offer up. After he had stitched up Dean, Benny had offered to test him for STDs as well. Dean had gotten defensive, but Benny soothed him, saying, “I’m not judging ya, I’m just trying to help.” The check-ups became frequent after that. He scrunches up his face at the cool touch of latex-covered fingers, but listens as Benny tells him about his daughter’s dance recital from the past weekend and how he is studying to become a psychiatrist as well.

           “Well, let me run these samples real fast,” Benny says after pricking Dean’s forefinger for a blood sample.

           Dean nods as he adjusts he pants on his hips and settles back down on the cushioned table. He prays that his clients haven’t been too skeezy. The test comes back clean and Benny ushers Dean out the door, telling him the same thing he has always told him:

           “It’s no charge, brother. You can always come to me. When you stop all this, I’m also someone you can talk to.”

****

           Thursday comes too fast and too slow. Dean pulls off his faded Metallica tee shirt, tossing it into the growing pile on his closet floor. He huffs in frustration, finally deciding on just wearing his blue tee with a faded yellow Batman logo across the chest. Kinda nerdy… He gazes into his closet at his limited options, plucking up a grey suit jacket with a shawl lapel. He puts that on over the tee, hoping it may spruce up the outfit. He looks in the mirror and groans loudly as he shrugs off the jacket and hangs it back in the closet before marching out of his bedroom. Stupid stupid stupid. Why do I even care? I don’t care.

“The Batman shirt? That’s your go-to for your first date?”

Dean closes his eyes, sighing dramatically as he lets his head loll backwards. “First of all: not a date. Second, what should I wear?”

Sam shrugs, rising from the couch. “One of your plaid shirts, I guess. But you kinda can’t change now.” Sam responds, walking to the front door.

“Why not?” Dean asks, folding his arms across his chest.

“We’re already ten minutes late and we live next door so we can’t blame traffic.”

“Shit.” Dean utters under his breath before pulling on his tennis shoes and heading out the front door with his brother.

They step outside and walk over to their neighbor’s door. Sam knocks a couple times, but no response comes. The brothers frown at each other before Sam lifts his fist and knocks again. When there is still no reply, he turns to Dean and says, “You’re being stood up.”

“Shaddup, Thumbelina.” Dean huffs, pushing Sam aside to rap lightly on the door. He leans forward, calling, “Cas? You in there?”

“Uhhh,” a muffled voice replies from the other side along with a faint, shrill beeping. “I’m experiencing difficulties.”

“You okay?” Dean asks through the door, eyebrows pulling together. Is that smoke? Do I smell smoke?

After waiting a moment, Dean grabs the doorknob and says, “We’re coming in!” before pushing the door open. Yup. That is definitely the smell of something burning. The shrill sound of the alarm penetrates Dean’s eardrums. His adrenaline spikes along with worry for his neighbor. To his right is the living room and he whips to the left: the kitchen. Castiel is coughing in front of the oven that is wide open, desperately using a cookie tin to fan a black blob that is spitting a little fire and a lot of smoke out. “Cas!” Dean exclaims, hurrying to his neighbor’s aid. He reaches through the cloud of smoke, squinting from the heat hitting his face. He grabs for the oven’s handle, missing and burning his hand upon grabbing the lip of the door, fingers being pressed to the inside. He hisses and jerks his hand back, but reaches back down, grabbing the handle and shutting the oven tightly before punching the ‘off’ button with his thumb.

“It’s still on fire in there!” Sam exclaims over the screaming alarm.

“Lack of oxygen will suffocate the flames.” Dean explains, coming down from his small adrenaline high and feeling the pain in his burnt fingertips. He watches the oven for a moment, making sure the smoke seeping out is slowly dying down.

Castiel is standing, clutching the cookie tray, looking embarrassed as he mutters, “I apologize… I don’t have an extinguisher and I didn’t know what to do…”

Dean shakes his head, coughing a little as he walks over to the sink. “Don’t apologize, Cas. Your apartment nearly went up in flames.” he turns on the cold tap water and sticks his fingers under the flow with a grimace.

“Are--Did you burn yourself?” Castiel asks, frowning guiltily.

“Ah, yeah. Totally my fault, though. I was stupid and grabbed the oven instead of the handle.” Dean says, making sure the cool stream hits each of his four fingertips.

Castiel is suddenly walking out of the kitchen. Dean and Sam look at each other for a beat and Sam comes to look at Dean’s hand. The middle and index fingers are blistering and the other two are just an angry shade of red. “That sucks, man,” Sam says, going to open the front door wider to let the smoke filter out of the apartment. Castiel returns later, holding a small, white tube of something. He walks right up to Dean, reaches around him to turn off the water-- and Dean is in pain and definitely does not notice how their bodies momentarily touch-- before grabbing Dean’s burnt hand and patting it dry with a paper towel. Dean stills, watching as Castiel turns his hand over to face palm-upwards, twisting the cap of the tube off with his teeth. Not hot. Opening burn cream is not hot. At all. Dean lectures himself, ignoring the goosebumps-- that are so fucking obvious-- that ripple up his arm as Castiel begins administering the cool ointment to each of Dean’s affected fingertips. Castiel’s hands are soft and gentle and Dean likes the way Castiel cups his hand in one of his own as he dabs on the cream with the other.

Castiel recaps the cream, releasing Dean’s hand from his grip. “It’s burn cream,” he explains as though Dean didn’t know this. “Try not to touch anything for the next few minutes. Your burns are first degree… I’m sorry. I was just trying to make rosemary chicken…”

“No, hey, it’s okay.” Dean says, patting Castiel’s shoulder with his unburned left hand.

“Are you sure?” Castiel asks, ushering them out of the kitchen and into the living room.

“Yeah, no big deal, man,”

“I understand if you don’t wish to stay. I only have a cake and a sauce made…” Castiel laments, flopping onto the couch. He looks up sheepishly and weakly suggests, “I could order pizza?”

“Pizza is great!” Sam pipes up, giving a reassuring smile.

Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rings and Castiel answers it with a smile. The redhead delivery girl smiles broadly at Castiel; she’s about twenty years old and greets him with an over-excited, “Hey there, Castiel!” before she begins rambling about her college interface design course. The two talk for a couple minutes before Castiel pays and tips her and she leaves the pizza with him. He turns back to the brothers, holding the pizzas and he explains, “I order pizza often.”

The three of them sit around Castiel’s four-person mahogany table with matching chairs. Dean opens his bottle of water and takes a few large swallows before grabbing himself two slices of the pepperoni pizza for his plate. He rips open a packet of parmesan, sprinkling it atop his pizza along with crushed red pepper flakes the pizza girl had brought. He looks up at Castiel, making eye contact briefly before clearing his throat and asking, “So, how is the hospital?”

Castiel shrugs and replies, “Good, I guess. Father tells me that it has one of the highest ranking Emergency Response units in the Dallas and Fort Worth area.”

“Cool,” Sam gushes around a mouthful of pizza. “Is that where you work?”

Castiel nods once as he swallows a bite of pizza himself. “Yes, I do rounds like the other nurses, but working in the E.R. is my specialty. Due to my extensive training, I also work in trauma surgeries as an assistant at times.”

Dean takes a bite of his first piece of pizza and nods, thoroughly impressed. He washes down the pizza with another drink of water and says, “So, is it anything at all like Dr. Sexy?”

“I’m sorry… I don’t understand that reference?” Castiel says, tilting his head to one side as he looks at Dean.

“It’s a daytime soap opera Dean watches. And it’s stupid.” Sam answers for his brother.

“No, no, it’s not. It is a series about doctors in a hospital.” Dean defends the show. “And I don’t watch it… I just have seen it when I’m flipping through channels.”

Castiel smiles slightly at Dean before looking to Sam and asking, “What grade are you in?”

“Twelfth. I’m graduating this May.” he proudly replies with a smile.

“That’s exciting. Any college plans?”

Sam shrugs a shoulder, smile growing wider. “Yeah, actually, I’ve already been accepted to a few colleges.” he modestly says, eating more pizza.

“Yep, he’s going off to Stanford soon. Sammy’s gonna be a lawyer.” Dean says with a smile that is thirty percent proud-older-brother, twenty-five percent proud-parent, and forty-five percent oh-shit-how-am-I-gonna-pay-for-that?

“Stanford? That’s impressive. Their acceptance rate is only around ten percent.” Castiel says, eyebrows raising.

“Thanks,” Sam smiles, peeling a slice of pepperoni from his pizza. “I mean, Dean told me to apply. I thought I’d never get in.”

Castiel looks at Dean who shrugs a shoulder. “I knew he’d be accepted. I got the green eyes and Sam wound up with all the brains.” he jokes as he ruffles his brother’s hair.

Sam swats Dean’s hand away, laughing around a bite of food. “Dean... could I ask you something?” Castiel says slowly, looking at his half-eaten pizza before looking back up.

“Yeah? What is it, Cas?” Dean asks, feeling as though time is going in slow motion.

“I was, uh, wondering if--”

Dean’s phone rings out the text tone loudly from his pocket and he fishes it out. It’s from an unknown number. _Shit. Now? Really?!_ He ignores Sam’s are-you-kidding-me face as he reads the message. It’s just an address along with the word ‘NOW.’ He stands up quickly and must look terrified because Castiel stands, as well, eyeing him worriedly.

“I gotta go…” Dean tells his neighbor with a grimace. “I’m really sorry, but I just got called into work.”

“Dean, you don’t have to go in every time you’re texted.” Sam groans, looking exasperated.

“This time I do.” Dean says firmly before jogging out the door and calling behind him, “Thanks for dinner, Cas!”

****

Dean stands outside the door, hoping the tight, black tee was nice enough with his jeans; he had been in such a rush after leaving Castiel’s that he only went into his apartment to take off his Batman tee and pull on the black one. Even though he rushed, it still took him one hour to get to the swanky apartment. He double checks the apartment number and time on his phone once more before silencing the device and putting it in his back pocket. It’s eight thirty. He lifts his hand and knocks on the door, feeling his stomach jump into his throat at the sound of the knob turning. Alistair’s thin frame is revealed behind the door and he eyes Dean up and down before ushering him in. Dean walks inside, worried because this is the first time he’s been conducting business outside of the Firefly Inn since his first few times. He tries to settle his nerves by looking around the giant apartment, getting a better feel for his dimly-lit surroundings. It’s a large, open space with windows covering most of the exterior wall, reaching from the floor to the high ceilings. Decorated in minimalist furniture with dark wood floors. A small fireplace is crackling in front of the overstuffed, black leather sofa to his left and Dean wonders how much this place costs before a bony hand is cupping the back of his neck.

“Let’s go over rules before we start, shall we?” the nasally voice wriggles into Dean’s ears and burrows under his flesh. “Do you have any?”

“You have to use protection,” Dean states simply, eyes down. “Otherwise… Anything you want.”

“Alright, sugar,” Alistair’s voice is almost condescending, but Dean doesn’t turn around to face Alistair. “Now time for my rules tonight. No noise. You will be silent tonight. You will do as I say and any disobedience will result in punishment.” He is circling Dean as he goes over the rules, coming to a stop in front of him. Dean fights the urge to pull away when the older man cups his chin in his hand, tilting Dean’s face to look up at him. “Understand?”

Dean is trapped again. He dips his chin as much as he can in a nod, remembering Alistair’s ‘be silent’ rule. Alistair’s lips stretch into a smile and he drops Dean’s chin. “Follow me.” he says, walking around Dean and leading him to the left through the open living room and down a small hallway where a mahogany door stands stark against the white walls. Beside the closed door to the right is an open doorway that Dean can barely see a marble countertop through and he assumes that is the kitchen. Opening the door, Alistair reveals a master bedroom with a king size bed in the center, a small, bedside dresser on the left, and a dresser against the wall beside the closet door. It’s just as dark and cold as the rest of the apartment. Dean barely has time to look at the dark wood headboard and crimson duvet before Alistair says, “Take your clothes off. Slowly.”

Dean nods, still trapped under the piercing gaze. He doesn’t know why the man’s eyes are so unsettling… It’s never this weird when Castiel stares. He wipes that from his mind immediately, focusing on the job. Focus. Dean starts by bending over slowly, folding himself forward to untie the laces of his shoes and slip them off. He rolls up, slowly stacking each vertebrae on top of the other, putting on his mask. The smirk and occasional cocky grin. He takes the hem of his shirt in his hands and peels it from his body before letting it drop to the floor. He smoothes his hands down his chest and stomach slowly and sensually before reaching the button of his jeans which he promptly unclasps. He pulls the zipper down before pulling his pants off and stepping out of them. He’s left in only his white socks and white boxer briefs now. The socks are removed first, being added to the pile of Dean’s clothing on the ground. He slips his thumbs into the elastic of the expensive underwear and slowly, teasingly pulls them down. Alistair is assessing Dean in a cold, calculating sort of way.

Dean is starting to worry Alistair doesn’t like what he sees. _I need this gig. I need this._ He feels panic bubbling in his chest, but doesn’t let it show on his face. Instead, he bats his blonde lashes alluringly at his client. Alistair walks past Dean and to the bedside table and Dean turns around to watch him open the drawer. A small bottle is tossed to Dean and he catches it easily.

“Get on the bed.” Alistair orders as Dean reads the label for the lubricant.

Dean climbs onto the bed; it is ridiculously tall, the top of the mattress as tall as his hip. He wonders how Alistair wants him…

“Get on your hands and knees.”

Okay, question answered. Dean does as he is told, the bottle of lube set aside so that he can get on all fours. He looks over to see his client scrupulously taking off his clothes, laying them across the bedside table so they don’t wrinkle. Dude’s a control freak, Dean assesses as he takes in Alistair’s naked torso. The man has abs. Nothing like David Beckham or anything, but abs all the same. His gaze sweeps over the wiry muscles of the man’s legs, the toned arms, and finally, the erect penis. Dean feels Alistair’s eyes on him again and freezes, looking up from the shaft. He’s frozen, staring like a deer in the headlights as Alistair climbs onto the bed. They don’t break eye contact until Alistair knee-walks behind Dean and commands, “Face forward. Do not look back.” Two cold hands grab Dean’s ass with no warning, spreading his cheeks and he has to contain a startled noise. Alistair leans over Dean, rubbing his hard length against Dean’s backside as he grabs the lubricant from Dean’s left.

“Spread your legs wider.” Alistair is off of Dean in a second, the click of the lubricant being opened entering Dean’s ears.

Dean does, shifting so that he is more open to the man. He hears a dark chuckle behind him before a finger plunges into him. “Ah!” Dean exclaims before he can stop himself. Oh, shit. Dean’s body stiffens. Alistair is quiet behind him, too quiet and too still. And before Dean can think of apologizing, a hand smacks across his backside with a loud crack upon contact and it hurts and he knows it’s gonna bruise, but... A spanking? That was his punishment? Alistair begins moving his finger deeper into him and Dean supposes that was all there would be. He sighs out a breath of relief because it could have been so much worse. He grits his teeth as a second finger is added a little too early, burning as the man behind him stretches him open wider. “On your forearms.” Dean lowers himself to his forearms, his backside now higher and more on-display. He presses his forehead into the dark, down-filled comforter. A third finger enters and _shitshitshit_. He wasn’t ready. He bites his lip, fighting off the noise that tries to climb out of his throat. Moments later, the fingers are pulled from his entrance and Dean gasps at the loss, clenching around thin air.

The crinkling of the ripping of  a condom packet is like music to Dean’s ears. The sound of Alistair slicking himself up comes from behind and Dean focuses all his energy on relaxing. Because three fingers had loosened him up a bit, but Alistair was thicker than that and he hadn’t even been all the way stretched out around those three fingers. Relax, don’t think too hard about that stuff… Just relax. He tells himself, breathing in deeply through his nose. The bed shifts and Alistair’s legs are on either side of Dean, standing on the bed over him. Dean feels the man line himself up, his cock brushing over his hole antagonizingly. With a grunt, Alistair shoves the head into Dean. Dean fists the blanket underneath him, biting his lip at the burn he feels. Alistair grabs Dean’s hip with one hand and smashes Dean’s shoulders down with the other, making Dean present like a cheap whore. _Well, if the shoe fits…_ he begins to think when Alistair shoves in the rest of the way.

He gives Dean no time to think before he is pounding into him. The bony hand grips his hip hard and Dean can feel the bruises blossoming beneath the cold fingers. The other hand presses Dean deeper into the mattress with each thrust, Dean turning his head to the side so he doesn’t suffocate from being smashed into the duvet. Each thrust burns, but Dean reminds himself that he’s had worse. He gasps as the older man thrusts extremely hard, hitting Dean’s prostate and Dean opens his mouth in a silent yell. The man continues pounding into him, not hitting the bundle of nerves again. Dean listens to the grunting of the man behind him and that dirty feeling washes over him like it does with every appointment. He feels small and dirty. Used and broken. A toy. A thing. He closes his eyes, but he can still hear every grunt and every slap of skin on skin and he can still feel himself stretching around the man’s thick dick and the hands on him and the hardness of his own length against his will. The rhythmic slapping of thighs against Dean’s ass gets faster and soon, has no beat altogether. With a loud sigh, the man comes and Dean can feel the condom being filled with it inside him. Before he can process it, Dean is empty again.

“Roll over.”

Dean rolls onto his back, looking up at Alistair for the first time in ten minutes. The man is sitting back on the bed, staring at Dean’s hard length. “Jack off.” Dean swallows, wrapping a hand around himself, using his leaking precome as lube. He feels exposed as he moves his hand up and down his length, but continues because he is hard and it does need to be dealt with. Halfway through, Alistair purrs, “Very nice,” and Dean looks up to see Alistair watching rapturously, stroking his own now-soft dick. And chills run up Dean’s spine, so he looks away. Just finish yourself off, he thinks, beginning to pump faster. With a muffled groan, he comes all over his hand and abdomen.

“Very good,” Alistair praises in that grating voice. “Get off the bed.”

Dean breathes heavily, legs feeling weak after his self-procured orgasm. He sways tiredly once he is on the hardwood floor. Alistair lays back on the bed and coos, “You can leave.”

As Dean pads across the cold, hard ground, he breathes a sigh of relief. That wasn’t bad. He had been expecting worse being out of the Firefly Inn because here, Crowley couldn’t send in one of his goons if a client got too rough with one of the whores. Dean picks up his clothes from the floor, very aware of Alistair’s eyes on his back as he tenderly gets dressed, pulling his underwear on over the sticky mess. Sure, he’s sore and has to walk funny, but he is grateful the appointment only lasted an hour. He may like this gig after all.

****

“That was so rude, Dean.” Dean is closing the door behind him when Sam’s voice comes from the living room, causing Dean to startle.

“Shit!” he sighs; he had been hoping to limp straight into his room, but instead he heads past his bedroom door and into the living area. The only light in the room is from the television that is quietly playing an old episode of Breaking Bad. “Why are you awake? It’s a school night.”

“It’s only eleven twenty and tomorrow is a bad weather day,” Sam says, taking his eyes off the television that is now muted. “You were rude running out on dinner.”

“Really? You’re going to lecture me right now?” Dean groans, squeezing his temples between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s my job, Sam. I had to go.”

“You work too much, Dean. Just give yourself a break every once in a while. Would it have killed you to go in at a regular time? No one would have cared! They can’t expect you to always come in when they call you, can they?” Sam exclaims, growing more aggravated as he speaks.

“You don’t get it, Sam! This job is what’s paying for this apartment and our food and the bills! I can’t just not go to work when they call me! They pay for all this!” Dean snaps back, dropping his hand from his head to gesture around him at the living room jerkily.

“You didn’t have to be such a dick! You could have stayed five more friggin’ minutes! You could have at least eaten one whole piece of pizza! Dammit, Dean, Castiel went through a lot of trouble trying to make chicken and--”

“My fucking _clients_ make the damn schedules so I can’t just--!!!” Dean cuts himself off, realizing his mistake. His teeth click together from slamming his mouth shut so hard.

“Sessions? Clients? Dean, what are you talking about?” Sam stares at Dean, looking confused for a moment. And Dean hopes Sam doesn’t figure it out, but he can see the wheels turning behind those wide, hazel eyes. Pieces locking into place.

“I-I didn’t meant to say sessions. I was gonna say--”

“Oh, God.”

“Shut up, Sammy.”

“Oh my God, Dean… Are you..?”

“I said shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dean looks away from Sam. Stares at the tv where a man in red is pointing a gun at a man dressed in plaid in the doorway of an apartment.

“Shit. Shit. Dean, shit.”

The man in plaid raises his hands in surrender on the screen and Dean can feel embarrassment and shame creeping through his whole body. “What… You don’t know what you’re talking about.” he says again, staring through the tv.

“Dean,” Sam says his name quietly and Dean sees him rising from his seat on the couch slowly. Like Dean is a deer. Worried he’ll startle him and scare him away. “Are you… Are you selling yourself?”

Dean sucks in a breath through his nose, puffing it out of his mouth in something that resembles a laugh. Or a sob. He looks away from the television where the gun holder’s hands are shaking and his eyes are watering. “Yeah, well, Bobby’s wasn’t really cutting it, so,” Dean shrugs nonchalantly, pressing his lips together as he looks at Sam.

“Is that why you go to the doctor so often?” Sam asks, looking like he’s about to cry. “Do you have AIDS?”

“What?” Dean exclaims. “What. No. I just go to make sure it’s all good down there. Like, you know.” he awkwardly gestures to his lower half.

Sam breathes a sigh of relief, but doesn’t stop giving Dean those big, pitying puppy eyes.

“Don’t gimme that look.”

“Dean, you have to stop.”

“I can’t, actually.”

“It’s not safe. You don’t know who these people are!”

“They all get background checks from the boss, so, it’s all safe and clean.” Dean says, leaving out that he actually doesn’t know how safe it is because Crowley is a pretty terrible person and that the background checks only look into whether or not the client has an STD or not.

Sam is quiet for a minute and Dean, suddenly hit with a wave of fatigue, carefully sinks to a seat on the arm of their sofa. Elbows resting on knees, Dean lets his hands hang between his legs and fiddles with his fingers instead of looking at his brother. He hears a deep sigh above him before Sam says, “Could you quit?”

           Dean shakes his head and says, “I just got this gig… And I signed off on it. I can’t quit. Not now.”

           Sam is quiet for a long time. “Is this why you don’t want to date Cas? Is this why you think you’re not good enough?”

           “Sam, please, can we not get into this right now..?”

           “You deserve someone good, Dean. You always have deserved better than what you got.” Sam says and his honesty is heartbreaking because how can he believe that? “Cas and I talked when you left, you know.”

           Dean runs a hand through his hair, but doesn’t respond.

           “He’s a great guy, Dean. I think if you just quit and told him, he’d help you and accept it and--”

           “No! Nononono.” Dean shakes his head. “We are not telling Cas. And I told you, I can’t quit. I signed a contract.”

           Sam furrows his brow. “But if you date him, you’ll have to tell him.”

           “I’m not gonna date him.”

           “But ya’ll are both so into each other!” Sam groans with exasperation.

          Dean rubs his eyes until he sees stars and replies, “Can we talk about this another time?”

           “You can’t put this off, Dean! And you can’t lie to Castiel!”

           “I’m not lying to him! It’s… different!”

           “Dean.”

           “Please, Sam. Can we continue this tomorrow? I’m tired.” Dean pleads, pushing himself to a standing position.

          “Yeah, fine.” Sam puffs out. “Goodnight, Dean.”

           “Night, Sammy,” Dean murmurs in reply before he drags himself to his bathroom where he washes the encounter with Alistair off his skin and wishes he could scrub it from his mind.

****

           Dean schlumps across the hall into the kitchen when he awakes, following the scent of coffee and bacon. He rubs his eyes and sees Sam holding out a plate of sizzling bacon to him with one hand and a mug of steaming coffee with the other. Dean arches an eyebrow as he takes the breakfast from his little brother. He thanks Sam as he stirs heaps of sugar and creamer into the coffee. Sam pulls a bowl of oatmeal from the microwave and takes up his usual seat on the kitchen counter to eat. He’s looking at Dean patiently as the older Winchester leans against the countertop and crunches down on his bacon.

           “What’s up?” Dean asks around a mouthful of the crispy meat.

           “Are we going to talk about it?”

           Oh yeah. “Sam, it’s seven-thirty…”

           “Good thing you’re a morning person.”

           Dean frowns, taking a drink of his coffee as he sets the plate of bacon on the counter beside him. He wraps both hands around the mug, feeling the warmth seeping into his body. “What do you want to know?” he finally asks.

           “How long?”

           “About two and a half years now.”

           “So, ever since Dad kicked you out?”

           Dean purses his lips. “Almost. Yeah.”

           “And you’re working under someone? Someone is pimping you out?”

           Dean cringes at the word, but nods as he stares at his coffee. He hears Sam breathe in deeply and braces himself for whatever the teen is preparing to say.

           “Is that who Azazel is? Is he your pimp?” Sam’s words are quiet and slow.

           Dean closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. “No,”he murmurs.

           “Who is Azazel?”

           Dean opens his eyes and lets his gaze flit to Sam’s worried face before dropping back to his coffee. He stares at the tendrils of heat coming up from the light brown liquid, curling in the air before his breath hits them and makes the steam break apart and disappear. He doesn’t want to say anything for fear his voice will break and for fear he will break and Sam will respect him even less if that is even possible.

           “... Dean?”

           “He, uh, he was my first client.” Dean coughs out after a moment of silence, taking a drink of coffee and feeling it burn his tongue. “Before I began working under Crowley…”

           Sam is quiet, allowing Dean to continue if he chooses.

           “It didn’t go so well.” Dean says with finality.

           “I’m sorry,” Sam murmurs.

           “No, ’s not your fault. I’m sorry that I can’t do better for you.. I’m sorry I’m such a fuck up.”

           “You are not.”

           Dean feels tears sting his eyes and blinks them back. “How can you say that? After finding out what I am?” Dean snaps.

           “I mean, I always kind of knew.” Sam shrugs, swirling his spoon around in his half-eaten oatmeal. “I was just waiting for you to feel comfortable enough to tell me… And you are a twenty-two year old taking care of your  younger brother. I know that must suck. I’m proud of you for dealing with all my crap and paying for all this and doing your best, Dean. You’ve gotta know how much that means to me.”

           “I’m glad you’re proud that I’m a prostitute.”

           Sam sets aside his oatmeal and runs a hand through his hair. “That’s not what I’m saying… I think you should get out when you can. And I think you are smart and can do so much better.”

           “Okay, thanks little brother,” Dean says around a sip of coffee. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?”

           Dean drops Sam off at school and, before he closes his door, Sam peers into the car at Dean. “What’s up?” Dean asks, hoping there would be no more heart-to-heart talks of his side-job.

           “Castiel works the night shift tonight. He doesn’t go in until three this afternoon and works until three in the morning.” Sam says, toeing the pavement under his feet.

           Dean lifts his hands off the wheel and asks, “So..?”

           “Maybe you should apologize for leaving so abruptly?” Sam pushes gently.

           “He probably wants nothing to do with me because he probably thinks I’m a big dick.”

           “No, he said he understood… You know, since he gets called in sometimes?”

           “As a nurse. Not as a whore.” Dean says, lowering his voice in case a high schooler is eavesdropping.

           Sam frowns sadly at Dean before saying, “Just go apologize. He was bummed that you took off.”

           “Really?”

           “Yeah.” Sam nods and steps back from the car. “Text me how it goes!” he says before closing the door and walking away.

****

           Dean stands awkwardly outside Castiel’s door after texting Bobby to let him know he’d be about an hour late to work. _Should I have brought something as an apology offering?_ He looks back at his apartment door, wondering if he should back out. He’s not in kindergarten. Sam can’t make him say sorry to his neighbor. _But I was a dick and Castiel deserves an apology._ He lifts his hand to knock on the door, but stops to check the time. _Maybe the dude’s asleep. He may be sleeping to prepare for his night shift._ Dean knocks on the door softly three times. He’s about to vamoose to his place when Castiel opens the door, blearily looking up at Dean as he yawns.

           “Hello, Dean,” he says sleepily. “What’s up?”

           “Uh, sorry, man. I didn’t know you were asleep… I can come back later… Sorry to wake you up.” Dean stammers, trying his best to not gawk at Castiel’s loose-tee-shirt-and-boxer-briefs combo that a blue robe hangs limply around.

           “No, it’s alright,” Castiel mumbles around another yawn. “I woke up thirty minutes ago.”

           Dude must not be a morning person. “Oh, uh, okay,” Dean stammers. “I was, uh, I wanted to apologize. For last night.”

           Castiel squints at Dean, pulling his robe closed as a cold breeze blows in his face. “Would you like to talk inside?” Castiel asks. “It’s cold and I need a cup of coffee.”

           Dean opens his mouth, but closes it and nods instead. He follows Castiel into the apartment. It’s pretty cool in the apartment as well, but Dean doesn’t comment on that. Instead, he looks around at Castiel’s furniture and the few paintings he has hung on his walls. They turn into the kitchen where a large coffee maker is pouring steaming coffee into a pot. The smell wafts throughout the room and it’s deep and rich and somewhat minty. Dean watches Castiel grab the coffee pot as the machine sputters to a stop. He pours it into a mug and turns and looks at Dean, eyebrows raised as he takes a drink of the black coffee.

           “I, uh, I wanted to apologize.” Dean blurts out, realizing Castiel is waiting on him to speak.

           “You mentioned that.” Castiel says with a head tilt. “Why are you apologizing?”

           “Uh… Be-because I was a dick, man. I left and it was rude. I wanna make it up to you, though...” Dean sputters. “I mean, you went out of your way to have me and Sam over and I just kind of left… So, sorry I was a dick.”

           Castiel has a soft look on his face as he sips his coffee. “I understand being called into work, Dean. I was supposed to be off today myself.” He shrugs a shoulder. “I was not upset that you left. Disappointed? Yes. But not upset.”

           Dean nods slowly. His mind is full of white noise and offers up no better response than, “Oh.”

           Castiel nods and sets his coffee mug aside to open the cabinet. “Do you like coffee, Dean?” he asks as he pulls down another mug.

           “Yeah, why?” Dean manages to pull those two words from the dark recesses of his mind.

           “Well, I was thinking that maybe you would like a cup of coffee and we could talk as a way for you to make up for missing out on the five-star meal of pizza from last night.” Castiel jokes, pouring the black liquid into the other mug.

           Dean’s eyebrows raise and he feels his lips pulling up. Stop with the goofy smile. It’s just coffee. He manages his face into a smaller smile and says, “Yeah, that’s… I’d like that, Cas.”

           The two sit across from each other at Castiel’s mahogany dining room table and it’s awkwardly quiet as Dean takes the first sip of his sweetened coffee. He looks over at Castiel and his crazy bed-head and his rumpled robe and his tanned skin and his blue eyes that are staring right back at him. Dean drops his gaze to his coffee, feeling his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

           “So, uh… How are you?” Castiel’s voice makes Dean look up.

           “I’m good..” Dean responds automatically. “What about you?”

           “Tired, but good,” Castiel says before taking a drink of coffee. After a beat of silence, he sets his coffee aside and coughs a little. “Uh, how was work last night?”

           Dean looks away and fiddles with the handle of his mug as he lies, “It was alright. Tips were okay.”

           “That’s good. Is it interesting?”

           “What?” Dean looks up, momentarily confused.

           “Is being a bartender interesting?” Castiel elaborates. “Sam said you were a bartender. He said it was a very demanding job and you had crazy hours, which I can relate to.” Castiel chuckles, running a hand through his hair.            

           “Oh, right...It’s got its ups and downs, ya know? Like, it was busy last night. Nothing I couldn’t handle, though. Plus, tips are usually pretty good so it helps.” Dean lies smoothly.

           Castiel seems very interested in what he has to say. Which is odd because it’s not like I’m anybody especially interesting or important. “Sam says you have to deal with a lot of bar fights?”

           “What?” Dean asks with a frown. “What did he say?”

           Castiel looks up, analyzing Dean’s reaction. “He just said you seem to have to deal with a lot of scuffles because you often come home with bruises or soreness.”

           “Uh, yeah… It’s a rougher place. Bikers, crazy girls, and rich people who don’t know what else to spend their money on are usually the people I see.” At least that wasn’t a lie.

           “I don’t think I would be able to handle as many fights as Sam said you deal with.” Castiel admits with a shake of his head. “I dislike violence.”

           “So I take it you are not a fan of Wrestlemania on WWE?” Dean jokes, meeting Castiel’s gaze with a cheeky grin.

           Castiel huffs a laugh and responds, “You are correct on that assumption. Do you watch that?”

           “Nah, I’m not really a big fan of that stuff, plus I don’t get that channel in my basic cable package.” Dean shrugs with another grin.

           Dean looks up to meet Castiel’s eye and he seems… nervous? Dean opens his mouth to speak, but Castiel is already saying, “Can I ask you a question?”

           “Well, you just did.” Dean jokes, but Castiel just gives him a pained look. “Yeah, ask anything. What’s up?”

           “I was, uh, wondering if you would like to accompany me to a holiday party for my work?” Castiel asks with a straight face, but Dean can see the pinkness of a blush coloring across the man’s cheeks.

           He’s cute when he blushes…. Oh, wait a damn second is he hitting on me? Castiel’s face is so void of emotion that Dean can’t tell what the reason for embarrassment is. “Uh, what?”

           “The nurse staff and some doctors plan a holiday party for the hospital every year. It’s a way my father is trying to ‘improve the morale of the staff.’” Castiel puts the last part in between air quotes, making Dean chuckle. Castiel sighs and continues, “And… Uh, well, the invitations always say we are allowed to bring a plus one… And I never bring anyone.”

           Dean stops chuckling, aware that Castiel is embarrassed due to never having a date. He can empathize.

           “I never have time to date or make friends with anyone. Well, besides the pizza delivery girl, but I doubt bringing a girl six years younger than me would be appropriate. Plus, I don’t know how ‘weird’ it would be to bring the pizza delivery girl… And my father and brother have been pushing for me to meet someone lately… Not that you would have to be there as my significant other or anything like that. We can go as friends. My brother says I need to work on my ‘people skills’ because they are ‘rusty,’ which is slightly accurate.” Castiel is floundering, cheeks growing a shade darker, and Dean interrupts to save him from himself.

           “When is it?”

           “What?”

           “The party, Cas. What’s the date?” Dean asks around a small smile.

           “Oh, uh, it’s tomorrow night.” Castiel offers sheepishly. “I’m sorry it’s so last-minute to ask. I was going to ask yesterday… I understand if you can’t make it.”

           I had an appointment with Alistair once already this week… I can fake sick if Crowley asks me to come in… Dean mulls it over before agreeing, “Yeah, I can go.”

           “Really? Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says, relaxing a little.

           “Yeah, man. What are friends for?” Dean smiles, downing the last of his coffee. “What should I wear?”

****

“You look cute.” Sam teases, leaning on Dean’s doorframe and peering at his older brother who was looking over his outfit in the mirror.

           Dean scowls at Sam in the reflexion before pulling at the sweater around his neck to loosen it a bit. His mother had knit the thing for his father back when she was alive and Dean had saved it for himself when he was removed from the family home. The sweater was nice and soft and… well, hideous. It is green with a giant red and white candy cane knitted across the front.

           “Why are you wearing that thing?” Sam laughs when Dean turns to pull on his dress shoes.

           “It’s a themed party. Cas said it was ugly sweaters, remember?” Dean snarks as he pulls on his right shoe, making sure the bottom hem of his black slacks don’t get stuck in the heel.

          “Yeah, but you said Castiel said you didn’t have to wear an ugly sweater.”

          “Well, I didn’t want to be a party pooper.”

          There is a knock on the door as Dean pulls on his other shoe. Sam looks at Dean and cooes, “He’s picking you up? How sweet.”

          “Hahaha.” Dean deadpans before walking around Sam in the doorway to get to the front door.

         “Don’t you mean ‘ho ho ho?’” Sam teases, but Dean just ignores him and pulls open the door.

           If Sam thought Dean’s sweater was ugly, then Castiel’s is an abomination. It’s red with green and white patterns all across it of reindeers running in lines and snowflakes in other rows, all divided by zig-zags and polk-a-dots. Castiel smiles brightly at Dean after looking at his sweater. “Hello, Dean,” he says, peering around him to where Sam is laughing. “Hello, Sam.”

          “Heya, Cas,” Dean smiles. “You ready?”

          They ride in Castiel’s tan, 1978 Lincoln and Dean chuckles as he looks at Castiel’s sweater. “Man, that thing is hideous. Where did you get it?” he finally snorts out at a red light.

          Castiel nods, looking down at the sweater. “It’s my brother’s. He has an affinity with dressing ridiculously.”

          “You have a brother?” Dean asks.

          “I have three older brothers and a younger sister.” Castiel replies, turning into the fast lane to bypass a slow mini-van.

          “That’s cool. What are they like? Where do they work?”

          “Luke is the oldest and is in California doing plastic surgery. Michael is a neurosurgeon here. Gabriel is in training to be a trauma surgeon and is very close to being done in a few years. My sister is studying art, though. She lives with our aunt in Chicago and goes to the Art Institute there.” Castiel says, driving through the seven o’clock traffic carefully.

          “Huh,” Dean replies with a nod. “Which brother is the one who lent you this?” he plucks at the baggy sweater Castiel was wearing.

          “That would be Gabriel,” Castiel groans.

          “You don’t like him?”

          “No, I love all my siblings, but Gabriel is… incorrigible.” Castiel says after a pause. “Try to ignore him.”

          “He’s gonna be there?” Dean asks, arching an eyebrow.

          “Unfortunately,” Castiel utters as he pulls into the parking lot of a large bowling alley with a bright, retro sign.

          “Are we bowling?” Dean asks, trying and failing not to sound too excited.

          “Yes, the board tries to do different, fun things each year. They rented out this whole bowling alley. Do you like bowling?” Castiel asks as they exit the car and the cold wind hits them in the face.

          “I’m a pro, Cas,” Dean crows jokingly as they enter the dark, neon-lit building.  

          “CASSIE!” a loud shout comes from their right and Dean sees Castiel roll his eyes.

          “Please, ignore anything he says.” Castiel quickly utters to Dean, who barely hears the low request over the jukebox playing “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

          A man with dirty-blonde hair tucked behind his ears saunters up to Castiel, wrapping an arm around Castiel’s shoulders affectionately. “Baby bro! Wazzup!” Gabriel exclaims.

          “Hello, Gabriel,” Castiel huffs as Dean takes in Gabriel’s sweater and it is twenty times worse than his. It looks as though the ghost of Christmas present vomited on him.

          “Who is this fine hunk of man?” Gabriel asks before making a purring noise at Castiel.

          Castiel squirms out of Gabriel’s headlock and huffs, looking like a ruffled bird. “This is my friend…”

          “Dean Winchester,” Dean introduces himself, sticking out his hand to shake.

          Gabriel’s eyebrows go up when he hears the name and he takes Dean’s hand in both of his. “Hello, there! You are twice as drop-dead gorgeous as Castiel here described you. The boy does not know how to use adjectives.”

          Dean looks from where Gabriel is pumping his hand up and down to where Castiel is standing. The dark-haired man is glowering at his brother in a nearly threatening way.

          “I mean, he said you had an ass, but man! You have an ass! I’m not gay, but I can appreciate a good ass.”

          “Okay, thank you, Gabriel.” Castiel interrupts. “We’re going to get bowling shoes.”

          Dean drops Gabriel’s hand as Castiel heads towards the counter that is wrapped in blinking lights. He jogs to catch up with Castiel, who had been power-walking away from his brother. They reach the counter and Castiel turns towards Dean, saying, “I apologize for Gabriel’s language. It was disrespectful. I never said any of those things…”

          Dean laughs, clapping Castiel on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I have a brother, too, remember? I know what it’s like when they try to embarrass you. No big deal.” he says as he points to the shoe size he needs for the worker.

          Castiel huffs out a breath, telling the worker his shoe size. The two grab their bowling shoes and head to a bench to put on the monstrosities. Dean notices he is still visibly upset and bumps Castiel’s shoulder with his own. Castiel looks over and Dean grins over at him. “C’mon, Cas, it’s cool! I know you wouldn’t say that stuff. I don’t think you have it in you to say ‘ass’ or any other curse word.”

          Castiel relents, giving a small smile as he puts his shoes in a cubby after lacing up the bowling sneaks. Dean follows suit before asking, “Shall we bowl?”

          Dean is a terrible bowler. He loves bowling, but he sucks. It used to infuriate him when he got a gutter-ball, but Castiel laughs every time that happens and… I really like the sound of him laughing. Castiel is a very good bowler and is beating Dean tremendously. A few nurse friends of Castiel’s come and introduce themselves. A woman named Meg comes over and takes their picture before she asks if they are dating, to which Castiel replies, “No, Meg. No unicorns.” And Meg nods as if she knows what that means before talking about having to change tubes in someone she called “Super-Old-Sinclair” in her upcoming shift.

Dean heads over to the  jukebox during the remainder of the conversation, not interested in hearing about bowel movements. He digs in his pocket and fishes out fifty cents before beginning to scroll through the selection on the touch-screen. The jukebox rocks slightly as someone comes to lean up against it. Dean looks up and sees Gabriel, leaning casually against the music machine, lollipop in his mouth.

“Hey, Gabriel,” Dean says as he skips past the choice of Blondie.

“Hey, Dean-o,” Gabriel says around the lollipop that he swirls in his mouth. “So, what kinda music do you like?”

“Uh… Mostly classic rock, I guess,” Dean replies with a shrug. “Sometimes pop has a few good picks.”

Gabriel nods slowly and gives Dean a cheshire cat smile. “So, Dean-o…”

“Uh, could you not call me that?” Dean interrupts with a grimace.

“Alright, alright,” Gabriel says, lifting his hands palms towards Dean in mock-surrender. “Have you had a drink yet? Gabby from pediatrics brought some mean jell-o shots.” he waggles his eyebrows at Dean.

“I, uh, I actually don’t drink. So…” Dean replies. But jell-o shots sound so so so good…

“Okay, no fun so far… What about drugs? You ever done drugs? Or do you do drugs?”

“What are you-- No, I don’t do drugs.” Dean says, looking up from the machine. His gaze moves from Gabriel to Castiel and his messy hair shining under the blue neon lights…

“Can you cook?”

“I guess. Look, it’s not that I don’t love playing twenty questions with you, but where is this going?” Dean pauses his scrolling to look at Gabriel.

“Just seeing if you’re a perfect match.” Gabriel drones, pushing back his hair.

“Perfect match? For what? I don’t wanna be set up on a blind date.” Dean finally taps the buttons for “Any Way You Want It” by Journey.

“A match for my baby brother. Duh.” Gabriel says obnoxiously.

“Cas?” Dean stammers, blushing as he looks over to where Castiel is awkwardly receiving a high-five from Meg.

“Yes. I’m assuming by the goo-goo eyes I’ve been seeing you give him the past twenty minutes, you wanna bone him .”

Dean coughs, choking on his saliva.

“Or have him bone you. Whatever. I don’t care. You obviously came here to get my blessings, amiright?” Gabriel arches one eyebrow as he looks up at Dean.

Goo-goo eyes? Have I really been staring at Cas that much? “Uh, ummm, no. I don’t-- We are… just friends.”

“Don’t lie to me. Doctor-patient-confidentiality.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Dean frowns around his deepening blush. He can feel it covering his cheeks and neck because now all he can picture is Castiel’s hands on Dean’s hips as he straddles Castiel, hands on Castiel’s firm chest as he--

“Anyways, you have my blessing. There. Go forth and date my brother.” Gabriel shoves Dean in the direction of the bowling lanes lightly.

Dean shakes his head and wanders back to Castiel and his lane where Castiel is looking at him with horror-filled eyes. Dean picks up a bowling ball before Castiel comes over to him.

“What did Gabriel say to you?” he asks, glowering over Dean’s shoulder.

“Uh… why?” Dean inserts his fingers into the openings in the neon bowling ball, focusing on that as if he is performing rocket science.

“Because you looked uncomfortable and Gabriel is distasteful when it comes to socialization in general, especially so if it’s someone I associate with.”

“Yeah, I picked upon that just now.” Dean jokes, swinging the ball by his side.

“What did he say?”

“He was just asking me lots of questions. Like did I drink or did I do drugs or did I, uh, want to have... sex... with you…” Dean’s voice gets very soft around the last part, almost to a whisper, but Castiel hears it and freezes. _Why did I mention that?_

The other man’s face gets very red very fast and his eyes fill with mortification. “I am _so_ sorry about him.” he quickly apologizes. “I had no idea he would be so inappropriate. I’m sorry, would you like me to take you home?”

Dean smiles lightly, still intensely embarrassed, but he doesn’t want to make Castiel feel bad. “Nah, I’m good. Let’s finish our game.”

Castiel’s face softens, although it is still red, and he nods once before saying, “Alright. Could you excuse me for one minute?”

Dean nods, watching as Castiel stalks over to where Gabriel is flirting with a tall brunette. He watches him greet Castiel as he stops in front of Gabriel and says something very stiffly. Gabriel makes an obscene humping gesture and Castiel smacks him in the back of the head, making Dean snort out laughter from where he is looking on. He wishes he could hear what the brothers are saying, but the interaction is short-lived and Castiel is striding back towards Dean now. Damn, look at his legs. Dean’s tongue darts out to moisten his lips.

“I am very sorry about my brother,” Castiel sighs again.

“Don’t be. He’s just doing what all brothers do.” Dean says with a shrug, tearing his eyes from Castiel’s legs to the man’s face. “Besides, it wasn’t an unpleasant question. Like at all.” Why did I say that? Why? He will never like you.

Castiel’s eyebrows raise slightly and he says, “Oh.”

“So, bowling?” Dean asks, lifting his bowling ball.

The night goes on and Dean cannot stop picturing what it would be like to be with Cas. To be happy with someone good. Which means, flirtations slip out and he chastises himself because Castiel doesn’t seem to reciprocate. But Dean can’t stop. He pats Castiel’s shoulder when he gets a strike and his hand lingers too long. Which makes Castiel stare, which isn’t that unusual for Cas, but there’s a question in his eyes now and Dean can’t hold the look for long. But when he sits down, Castiel sits close and their knees brush and their shoulders brush, but Dean doesn’t scoot away. An hour later, Castiel is yawning so much that he gets a gutter ball. Dean comes up to his friend, placing a hand on Cas’s shoulder as he says, “C’mon, Sleeping Beauty, let’s get you home.”

Castiel nods and the two trade in their bowling shoes for their own before heading out to the car. They ride home in comfortable silence, the only sound is the radio which is playing country music softly, the guitar flowing around the car and seeping into Dean’s skin like the warm sun. They pull up to the apartments and Castiel puts the car in park. He turns to Dean and he smiles lightly over at him.

“I’m sorry about Gabriel tonight,” he tells Dean, blue eyes shining in the dark. Like galaxies and oceans and planets pulling him into Castiel’s orbit. “But I am very glad you came with me.”

Dean finds himself sliding across the seat and holding Castiel’s face between his hands. And he feels lips, soft and warm closing the gap between them. His eyes close and all he feels is soft lips against his own and stubble under his fingers. One of Castiel’s hands holds Dean’s right wrist while the other grips his waist, pulling him closer. Castiel parts his lips, sweeping his tongue across Dean’s lips, sending shivers down Dean’s spine and causing him to part his lips in a gasp. Castiel’s tongue enters Dean’s mouth, swirling around his own. Dean hums subconsciously, letting his tongue dart into Castiel’s mouth. Castiel is like a blinding light and Dean’s senses are overloaded and all there is in the world are Castiel’s fingers holding him delicately and his mouth on Dean’s as he tilts his head just so. Dean darts his tongue into Castiel’s mouth again and Castiel sucks on it lightly, making Dean groan with pleasure. He pulls Castiel closer, nipping at Castiel’s lower lip before continuing the kiss. When they part for breath, Dean’s head is swirling. _What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?!_ He detaches himself and scoots back quickly, looking at Castiel guiltily.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” he blurts out. “It’s just you looked so…”

“It’s alright. It was not unpleasant. At all.” Castiel smiles dazedly with a wink.

Dean feels his face burning with shame because he knows what Castiel wants now. He wants to have sex. _That’s all he wants and I was stupid enough to think that… I kissed him and now he expects a follow through._ He swallows at the thought because he really really wants to have sex with Castiel. But not like this. He doesn’t want Castiel to be just another client. _But there is no way Cas wants me in the way I want Cas._ He looks away from Cas, feeling the blush staining his face and neck and ears, and says, “Sam is probably wondering where I am.”

Castiel nods, shutting off the car. They climb the stairs in silence and Dean knows Castiel was expecting more. That he had led Castiel to believe that he would give it up with that kiss. “Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel says with a small wave once they reach their doors. He looks slightly nervous.

“Night,” Dean replies quickly as he pushes his way into his apartment. Once he closes the door behind him, he groans loudly, pounding his forehead into the wood.

“What happened?” Sam’s voice is behind him in the hall.

“I fucked up.”

“What did you do?”

Dean turns, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I kissed him.” he mutters into his palms.

“Finally!” Sam exclaims. “Why do you think you messed it up?”

“Because, Sam. I’m a fucking tease... I just… kissed him! And now he probably thinks… Oh, God. He probably just wants to… And I’m over here like a girl wanting a relationship.”

“Dean, he’s not one of your clients. He’s not like them.” Sam says.

“How do you know that, Sam?” Dean snaps, dropping his hands. He doesn’t want his hopes being built up by his brother. “I’m not good, Sam. I’m not cut out for real relationships and everyone knows. That’s why Lisa broke up with me when she was done with me. That’s why I am what I am.”

He retreats to his room before Sam can fight him on the subject.

****

          Five days later, Dean is still avoiding running into Castiel at all costs while also dodging Sam’s Parent-Trap-esque attempts to get them together when he receives a text at eleven at night. Same address. Same message: “NOW.” So, Dean changes into nicer clothing before driving off towards the city. Forty minutes later, he finds himself being led into the spare room of the apartment and being trussed up by the wrists to a chain. It’s dark in the room and Alistair is ripping his clothes off him, tearing the seams of the garments uncaringly.

“What… What are you doing?” Dean asks, trying to keep the growing panic from seeping into his voice. He tugs at his bound wrists tied to a metal canopy overhead; it’s almost too tall and Dean shifts on the balls of his feet uneasily. He tugs at the plastic ties again, unable to get them to budge. The room around him is the spare room in Alistair’s apartment. It is full of different BDSM-style furniture all covered in leather straps and harnesses. The dim lighting gives the room an unsettling feeling. Like he just walked onto the set of a horror film. Whips and other “toys” are in a chest on the side of the wall; Dean saw some of the items inside when he was being trussed up. What Dean is strapped to is a large metal rod overhead extending from one wall to the other. A chain hangs down from that and that chain is what Dean’s wrists are secured to.

           “Just… Hold still and this will go a whole lot easier for me,” Alistair purrs, readjusting a whip in his hands. His mouth is turned up the slightest in a sadistic smile, but his eyes are black holes-- void of emotion, pulling Dean in only to rip him apart.

           Dean tugs at his wrists again, grinding his teeth as the plastic cuts into his skin.

           Alistair tuts, leaning down to trace a hand from the top of Dean’s shoulder blade, down his back, to his bare backside. His long face is before Dean’s and the frown lines and wrinkles stand out on the man’s clammy, pale skin like dark roots growing across his face.  “Shame on you, Dean. You need to learn to listen to me when I give instructions.”

           Dean feels Alistair’s fondling hand leave his skin and he pulls at his wrists again, turning his head as much as he can in time to see Alistair raise the whip up for the first time.

           It’s like being thrown into a fire headfirst and freezing to death. Restraints and ties slither around wrists and he can’t move and the money screams in his head and he can’t say no. Because Sam needs this. _It’s worth it. It’s worth it. I’ve had worse._ He thinks of the time he was beaten up outside a bar last summer and, yeah, that may have been worse. He grits his teeth and clenches his fists so tight his nails break through skin. But he deals with it. _Now, some of your clients may be into bondage… If you’re not willing to partake in that, let me know and I won’t recommend you to them._ Dean thinks back on Crowley briefing him on the job. He had said he didn’t mind bondage and hasn’t had any experience in the area until now. He takes the snap of the whip across his back, bites his lip to refrain from making any noise from the sudden, sharp pain, does everything the man says. Dean can feel the difference in the last whip; it was more concentrated. It was more like the slice of a blade than the thwack of a leather strap and he knows the last lash left a cut across his back, but knows it’s nothing bad. Nothing too deep. It will heal. “Good boy,” Alistair is cooing, stroking the hairs at the back of Dean’s head. Dean lifts his head from where it hangs as Alistair turns a crank on the wall that lowers Dean’s chain slightly, lowering him just enough so that he can stand flat-footed on the ground.

           “Spread your legs.” Alistair’s nasally voice sounds. _Oh, yeah_. Dean thinks, blinking slowly as he adjusts his stance. _We aren’t finished yet._

           Dean hears the click of a bottle being opened and tries to relax his tensed muscles. He shifts on his feet and tries to become more comfortable with his hands over his head; the position is uncomfortable and slightly scary and he almost wishes he was at least being screwed on the cheap-ass carpet of The Firefly Inn. A yelp escapes his lips as Alistair immerses his forefinger into him without warning. “No noises, Dean. You know your rules for this appointment.” Alistair scolds him, sounding like a reprimanding teacher as he pumps his finger roughly into Dean. Dean bites down on his lip with a nod. And just before he is fully ready, a second finger joins the first to stretch Dean wider. Then, Alistair is lining himself up. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw, thinking of something else. Someplace else. Someone else.

But it’s hard to distance himself from reality this time. Because it’s so violent that his feet come off the floor at times and he cries out and that makes Alistair growl with disapproval. And he tries to tell himself he’s had worse, but the lie gets lost somewhere in his mind. He feels Alistair’s hips stutter, but the man pulls out before finishing. He brandishes a small knife and cuts through the zip ties and Dean instantly slumps forward, crashing onto his knees and drawing his wrists to his chest. He stares down at the deep gashes around his wrists and the bruises pooling around the cuts and scrapes. Alistair’s hand in between his shoulder blades shoves him onto all fours roughly. The man stands above him, sneering, “Stay down and keep your head down. This is punishment for not listening.” And Dean hears the snap of the condom being removed and the familiar sound of the man jerking off before he climaxes, purposefully letting it spill all across Dean’s back in hot, thick bursts.

 


	2. Chapter 2

****

           Dean knows he’s walking funny. He knows he looks like hell. He knows his clothes are disheveled and ripped and his hair is sweaty and sticking to his head in weird ways and he stinks like sex and his back is covered in drying come and that he is absolutely wrecked. But he doesn’t give a damn. It’s one in the morning and no one will be around to see him walking tenderly in the darkness with chafed and bruised wrists and messed up clothes and raw everything.  The damn stairs are what gets him. He huffs and begins his ascent. Slowly. He’s so fucking sore and the cuts on his wrists hurt and everything hurts and he feels like he’s just run a marathon. Sure, he’s been sore before with a few wildly impatient customers, but usually he can ask for a minute to prep himself if he knows they aren’t willing. He sniffs up a round of tears that have been threatening to spill from his eyes since the drive home because he is not going to cry over this. The glow from the porch lights above his and Castiel’s doors illuminate the Winchester’s face once he gets halfway up the last flight of stairs. Four steps to go. And then the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs can be heard below him. _It’s not Cas, it’s someone else on a lower floor and they won’t see you._ Dean steps up gingerly and the footsteps keep coming. “Dean?” the gravelly voice is behind him as the footsteps stop and Dean grits his teeth before plastering on a cool smile and carefully turning to face his neighbor.

           “Heya, Cas,” he says wearily with a quick wave before noticing the overwhelming look of distress that is splashed all across Castiel’s face.

           “What happened to you?” Castiel asks, approaching until he is only one stair below Dean.

           “What’re you talking about, man?” Dean scoffs, leaning away from the piercing blue eyes that are made of churning oceans.

           “Your back is bleeding through your shirt.”

           Dammit. Dean curses himself for not thinking to cover the white tee with a jacket. “I, uh….” Dean pauses to think of a lie and he reaches to scratch the back of his neck, wincing slightly at the movement. He sees Castiel’s eyes widen as they track the motion.

           “Dean.” Castiel says again and it throws Dean because he says his name so tenderly and yet in such a demanding way.

           “It’s fine, Cas,” Dean says with a shake of his head before turning to finish this walk of shame to his door. He tries—he really tries—to walk like a normal human being. Castiel’s hand is gripping his shoulder and turning him around so they are face-to-face. The light overhead pours over Castiel like a halo, accentuating the hollows of his cheekbones and making his blue eyes seem twelve times more intense as they examine Dean with a thorough once-over. Dean puts up his wall. Face blank. Arms crossed.

           Castiel’s mouth opens then closes a couple times as he stares down at his sensable shoes. Finally, Castiel looks up at Dean and slowly asks, “Were you… assaulted at work tonight?”

           “What?” Dean says a little too quickly.

           “Bartending can be dangerous work.” Castiel is being careful in choosing each word. “Were you jumped at closing time?”

           “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nothing happened,” Dean scoffs, avoiding eye contact.

           Castiel frowns, looking like a bird with ruffled feathers. “Do not lie to me, Dean. I am your... friend and I am a nurse. I have studied lacerations and bruising and wounds for years and I know when they are intentional.”

           Dean swallows. Shit. Shit. Shit. The air is suddenly too thin because he’s been found out. Cas knows. He knows.

           “Dean?” Castiel’s voice is like an anchor and pulls him back. “Will you at least let me examine the wound on your back?”

           Dean forcefully swallows down air into his lungs and nods. He follows Castiel to his apartment and stays in the small entryway as Castiel wanders off. He looks to the door behind him and thinks about sneaking out when Castiel returns with a small, brown bag and four or five black towels in his arms. He quietly gestures for Dean to approach. Dean is led into Castiel’s living room and he looks around at the photographs of Castiel’s family, the leather sofa, the keys in his hands, the stack of CDs beside a small sound system, and at everything except Cas. Castiel flips the lights on before pulling a black, metal barstool from the kitchen’s bar to the middle of the living room floor.

           “Please, sit?” Castiel’s voice is soft as he gestures to the stool with one hand while setting the bag and towels down with the other.

           Dean nods, biting his bottom lip as he gingerly lowers himself to a seat and he knows Castiel sees how careful he’s being. He knows that Cas knows. Cas knows I’m a whore and a cocksucker. It was only a matter of time. I ruin everything. “Will you take off your shirt so I can see your back?” Castiel asks from behind and Dean stiffens because his back is covered in drying spunk. “You don’t have to fully remove it if you’re uncomfortable with that, I just need to see—“

           Dean drops his keys to the floor and peels his shirt off, wadding it up and holding it in his lap.

           Castiel doesn’t say anything, but Dean feels cool fingertips trace lines across his back and he knows that Castiel is tracing the bruises and following cuts like a sick game of chutes and ladders. He knows Castiel sees what is on him and knows what he did. He hisses when Castiel’s fingers reach the main cut. “Yep,” Castiel’s voice is quiet as he draws his hands back. “You need a couple stitches for that one. And it all needs to be disinfected. The rest are superficial and should heal within a few days or a week, though bruising will persist.”

           “Great,” Dean mumbles. “So, are you gonna sew me up like Winnie the Pooh?”

           “I don’t know what that means, but I would very much like to help you.” Castiel says. “Would you allow me to help heal you?”

           Dean gives a short nod before he hears rustling from Castiel digging through his bag. He looks over his shoulder to see Castiel pouring a bottle of water on one towel. He begins wiping down Dean’s back, cleaning all of Alistair off him and Dean drops his head into his hands at the careful way Castiel cleans him up. After a minute, Castiel is carefully pouring alcohol onto another of the smaller towels. He winces at the cold, harsh sting of the medicine against his cuts that heavily contrasts the tenderness of Castiel’s gentle touches. Dean feels the alcohol cleansing his back, removing any potential germs or infections. Replacing the lashes of Alistair with the touches of Castiel. Castiel walks around to stand before Dean and asks, “Wrists?” to which Dean obliges by lifting his right hand. He looks up at Castiel as the man scrutinizes the slices, but says nothing. Then more alcohol is applied to a different towel and used to cleanse each wrist carefully.

           “Your wrists won’t need stitches as they are not deep wounds, but you should keep them bandaged. I’ll give you a roll. Change it once or twice a day and apply Neosporin to prevent infection.” Castiel instructs as he delicately wraps each of Dean’s wrists in gauze and bandages.

           “Thanks,” Dean murmurs tiredly, rubbing his hands over the bandaged wrists. “What about my back…? The stitches?”

           “Do you want something to drink for that?” Castiel asks, looking up from rifling in his bag.

           Dean coughs up a pathetic laugh. “That’s not very doctor-y of you, ya know? Offering a drink to someone like me.”

           “Oh, yes. I apologize.” Castiel says, looking extremely awkward before transitioning back into his caring, nurse-mode.

           Dean just shrugs a shoulder barely, too tired to provide any sort of response. He nods when Castiel asks if he’s ready and winces at the feeling of the needle piercing his skin. Cas is silent as he works at giving Dean the few stitches he requires, but the air hangs heavy in between them. It’s thick and sticks in Dean’s throat like peanut butter when he tries to breathe too deeply. Because he knows that Castiel thinks he was assaulted when Dean knows he chose this. _I signed up for this. I chose to do this. This is my own fault._ He feels the truth bubbling to the surface, rising from the depths of his soul like his body trying to rid itself of a poison. He wants to shove it back down, bury it underneath an ocean of whiskey and lies. He hears the snip of Castiel’s scissors and feels the tug of the thread. He feels Castiel’s arms encircle him as he winds a temporary bandage around the wounds.

           “I know we haven’t known each other an elongated period of time, but... I care a lot about you.” Castiel is saying as he zips his medical bag closed. Dean feels a pang of guilt hit him in the gut as Castiel walks around to face him. “I would like you to know that I am here for you should you need me and I’m always here to talk. I… am sorry this happ—“

           “I wasn’t fucking attacked.” Dean snaps, unable to play along with this. The truth is so fucking close. It’s clawing at his lips, struggling to break free.

           Castiel’s face is blank as he awaits an explanation patiently.

           Dean sighs, dropping his head in defeat. “This… is my own damn fault.” He says, holding up a hand to stop Castiel from saying anything for a moment before his eyes flit down, picking at the edges of his bandaged wrists. He wishes he were elsewhere. Anywhere else. He clears his throat, drawing it out. “This…. This is what I do.”

           He sneaks a glance up from his hands fiddling in his lap to Castiel. The nurse looks confused, head tilting in that adorable way. Dean sighs. He really doesn’t want to say it. He just wants Castiel to figure it out from those five words. For the lightbulb to go off, for him to be disgusted, for him to end the best friendship and potential relationship Dean has ever had with the slam of a door.

           But dammit, he doesn’t fucking get it.

           “I don’t follow…” Castiel says, squinting at Dean.

           “I’m a fucking prostitute, okay?!” he explodes, the truth breaking free and pouring over Castiel and spilling across the carpet like a stain that can’t be removed.

           Castiel is caught off-guard by the confession. His blue eyes widen for a second and emotions flash by so fast, Dean can’t read them all. Dean juts his chin out, waiting for it. Rejection. Disgust. He waits for it, rolling out a welcome mat. Castiel breathes a tiny, “oh” out and nods a couple times.

           That’s it, then. Dean can’t bear to sit here any longer. He pushes himself up off the barstool and his shirt falls to the floor. Dean looks down at the ground, turning away from the other man because seeing Castiel denounce him is something he can’t bear at this moment, either. He gingerly bends down and plucks his shirt up, grinding his teeth to stop himself from voicing the pain that ripples through his body as he stands tall again. “Well, thanks. “ Dean says; his wall up again and firmly in place. Distance yourself. Get away. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about my job.”

           He takes three steps towards the door when Castiel commands, “Dean, stop.”

           “What?” he sighs. He’s too tired to be angry right now. Frankly, he’s embarrassed and just wants to go home and sleep forever.

           “Stay.” Castiel says, the sureness wavering slightly before he continues more firmly, “Stay the night.”

           Dean closes his eyes and breathes in deep. Not disgust. Not rejection. _Lust._ He should have known. Cas found out and now he wants to… _Fuck, he’s just like everyone else. That’s all he wanted and now I owe him._ Dean turns around, in-character as though someone flipped a switch. Because Castiel has money and, hell, he wants Castiel and this is probably the only way he’s ever going to have him. A cheap one-night stand. Another stain on his record. He walks as seductively as he can under the circumstances, coming within one foot of Castiel’s face.

           “Now, Cas, I didn’t know you were like that.” He purrs, placing a caressing hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

           “I hope you’re comfortable with this?” Castiel says, eyebrows pulling together.

          “Oh, I’ll make it good wherever you have me.” Dean shrugs, stepping closer to the nurse.

           “My couch has a pullout mattress?” Castiel offers and Dean draws closer, stroking the hairs at the nape of his neck.

“You wouldn’t rather have me on the kitchen counter? Or would you rather just have it right here… right now?” He quirks a teasing smile and leans closer. The nurse’s face is growing red and he looks even more confused. “So, should we discuss payment now? Hell, I’ll do you for free if you want.”

           Castiel’s hands are on Dean’s bare chest and he is pushing him away harshly. “I did not wish to—Did you think that was what I was implying when I..?” Castiel is sputtering.

           Dean stands in the middle of the living room, wondering what the hell just happened when Castiel’s eyes are on him again. The man looks sad.

           “Dean, I was offering you a place to sleep in case you did not wish for Sam to see you in your current state. That is all. I was not trying to… Make inappropriate advances on you.”

            _Oh shit._

           “I’m sorry if I did anything to lead you to believe that I—Oh, God, Dean.” Castiel is shaking his head and Dean is more embarrassed than earlier if that is even possible and he focuses on his dirty shoes that he probably should have taken off in the doorway... “Is that the kind of person you think I am?” Castiel’s voice is rough like a shot of cheap whiskey.

           Dean’s eyes snap up and he sees Castiel looking like a thunder storm fast approaching. Insulted and angry and hurt. “No! No, no, Cas—I don’t… I was just…” Dean is tumbling over his words now. “I’m sorry! It’s just, you told me to stay and I thought—when people say that to me…” he cuts the sentence short, using a waving gesture in place of the end of it.

           “You surely can’t value yourself that little.” The lightning is gone from Castiel’s blue eyes as he takes in the mess that is Dean.

           Dean forces a laugh. “I’m actually pretty expensive.” He tries to joke, but it falls flat.

           Castiel doesn’t say anything for a while and Dean hopes he doesn’t try to lecture him. He doesn’t want to hear lies from this man who was a stranger a month ago about how ‘he deserves better’ or some other shit. Because he doesn’t deserve better. “So, would you like to stay here?” Castiel offers finally and Dean feels his shoulders relaxing.

           “I don’t want to bleed all over your couch, man,” Dean murmurs, fiddling with his bandaged wrists.

           “Well, I bandaged you up pretty nicely, but you can borrow an old shirt of mine as well,” Castiel is nothing more than a soft, summer rain now as he walks off to grab a few things. Dean stands in the room, feeling child-like. The other man returns with folded sheets and clothes, a toothbrush, and socks. “It gets cold in here. My thermostat is broken. So, the socks may be necessary to keep your feet warm.” He explains as he hands over most of the stack to Dean. Castiel keeps a hold of the blankets.

           “Thank you,” Dean quietly replies, feeling a sad sort of happiness.

           “You’re welcome, Dean,” Castiel replies. “The bathroom is right through the dining room and my room is beside it if you need anything.”

           Dean wanders into the bathroom and brushes his teeth before disrobing. He fishes his cell phone from his wrinkled slacks before pulling on the black running shorts. He gingerly pulls the loose, grey tee over his back, smiling as he looks down at the large image of a smiling, red chili-pepper across the front of the shirt that advertises Adam’s Hotter-Than-Hell Chili Cook-Off!!! He splashes cold water on his face, blindly reaching for the hand towel to dry off. He looks at himself in the mirror. A disaster. A mess. A mistake. Bandaged wrists. Bruises peeking out from the edges. Circles under his eyes. Mussed up hair. God only knows what his back looks like. He sighs before gathering his things and flicking off the light. He quietly heads back to the living room, tossing his dirtied clothes to the side. He stops when he sees the couch has been pulled out and the blankets are all set up and there is a pillow for him. He chews his bottom lip, debating whether or not to stay or run away. Because this is all too much and he’s not used to being taken care of. But he’s tired and doesn’t want Sam to see him right now. So, he sets the rolled up socks and his cell on the coffee table before he lowers himself onto the bed, wraps himself up in covers, and slips into the dark abyss of sleep.

           Dean wakes up blearily and confusion twists in his foggy brain. _Where am I? Did I fall asleep with a client? Shit shit shit._ Dean scrambles to a seat in a blind panic, limbs getting caught up in soft sheets and stitches in his back pulling and wrists aching and _oh yeah. I’m at Cas’s._ The memories come back to Dean as he is fully awake now and he groans from the stiffness in his sore body. He throws his legs over the edge of the couch-bed and stands up, carefully stretching to relieve some of the taught muscles. He looks at his phone and sees it is six-thirty in the morning. Dean shuffles around the living room and notices the rest of the apartment is cold and quiet. He wonders if Castiel went to work or is still asleep.

           “Probably at work,” he utters to himself as he walks into the kitchen. His feet hit the tile and chills run up his bare legs. Cas wasn’t kidding about the broken thermostat. Dean frowns, wondering how much extra the thermostat is costing the nurse. He hears the sound of sputtering to his right and turns to see the coffee maker spitting out steaming, black coffee into the pot. Dean sighs happily as he rifles through cabinets to find a mug; his love for coffee rivals even his love for pie and sometimes his love for his twerpy little brother. Dean sets aside a bumble-bee mug he finds and pads back to the coffee table to grab his phone. No texts from Sam. He’s definitely still asleep. Dean walks over to the coffee maker again as the stream of coffee becomes thinner and finally just drips. He pours the coffee into his mug before mixing in some sugar he had found.

           Thirty minutes later, Dean has folded all his blankets, arranged his bed back to a couch, found a rudimentary tool kit and has Castiel’s thermostat in pieces. His phone is to the side, softly playing his library of classic rock tunes. He hums along, trading out screwdriver heads in order to take the rest of the appliance out of the wall. He tosses the screwdriver back into the kit once he pulls the unit from the wall. He lightly blows into the opening, coughing a little as the old dust is disturbed. He puffs into the unit a few more times until most of the interior dust is gone before he pulls the roll of paper towels from where he was holding it between his legs. He sits back on the arm of the sofa, pulling two sheets of paper towels off before spraying them with some multi-surface spray he found under the sink. He bobs his head along to the slow, rock ballad.

           “What’s your price for fliiight? You’ve got ‘im in your sights! You’ll be alright tonight!” Dean sings under his breath as he cleans each removed piece of the thermostat unit.

           “I didn’t know you were a morning person.”

           Dean whips around and drops the part he had been cleaning, startled by the voice. He winces at the pain in his back from the abrupt movement.

           “Sorry,” Castiel mumbles around a yawn, voice thick and rough from sleep.

           Dean pauses his music and feels a smile pulling at the corners of his lips as he looks over Castiel. The man’s raven hair is even more wild than usual and he is wearing a black, Maroon 5 concert tee paired with black boxer-briefs and Dean is really happy that Castiel’s tour shirt is a tad too long because he is fighting the urge to check him out right now. The nurse is also wearing a pair of blue hospital socks which is… _really cute, actually._

          “What are you doing?” Castiel asks, peering at the pieces of thermostat on his couch and the floor.

          “Oh, uh, you said your thermostat was broken, so I decided to take a look,” Dean explains, crouching to pick up the part he had dropped and going back to wiping dust and buildup from its insides.

          “You said you were an auto mechanic.” Castiel is grumbling as he shuffles towards the coffee pot. “Are you an electrician as well?”

          “Uh, no,” Dean says, setting aside the piece as he finishes. He picks up another piece, grateful Cas didn’t mention his other occupation. “But I’m good with stuff like this. So, I thought I’d take a look. I mean, I owe you… for last night.”

          Castiel returns to stand before Dean with his cup of black coffee. “You don’t owe me.”

          “Yeah, well,” Dean shrugs, cleaning the second piece thoroughly.

          “What was wrong with it?”

          “It was just dirty. The hoses and insides were coated in dust and crap; makes it hard for them to get a good reading of the temperature. No big deal.” Dean explains as he sets the dirtied towel aside and grabs the screwdriver again. He begins reinstalling the device as Castiel quietly looks on, sipping his black coffee.  Once everything is back in place, Dean turns back to Castiel who is standing too close for someone only wearing boxer-briefs and a tee shirt. He is looking past Dean at the thermostat, eyebrows furrowed. He hmphs and steps back, helping Dean pick up the paper towels, tool kit, and spray bottle.

          “Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says as he puts away the towels and cleaning spray.

          Dean comes back from putting the tool kit in the spare closet and shakes his head. “It was nothing, Cas.”

          Castiel shakes his head and takes another long pull from his coffee cup. Dean smirks; he hasn’t seen Castiel part from that coffee since he poured it. “Has your brother contacted you?” Castiel asks. “I wouldn’t want to worry him.”

          “Ah, Sam’s probably still asleep. He’s not a morning person, either.”

          “What do you mean? I am a morning person.” Castiel says and Dean has to check that his neighbor is being serious. He is.

          “Ok, Mr. Grumbly Grouchy Bear,” Dean chuckles.

          Castiel huffs, “I just needed coffee.”

          Dean’s phone lights up and sounds that he received a text. He checks the screen and says, “Speak of the devil.”

          “Is it Sam?”

          “Yep,” Dean nods before biting his lower lip and chewing it as he thinks over his next words. “Thank you, Cas. For, uh, all the help last night. I, uh, I… Yeah. Thanks.”

          “It’s no problem, Dean.” Castiel replies softly. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me.”

          Dean nods, avoiding eye contact as he picks up his keys from the floor where he dropped them the night before. “Yeah, uh, you too.” He says before heading to the door and waving over his shoulder.

          He opens the door to his apartment and walks in, feet cool on the tile. Sam looks up from a bowl of cereal and scrunches his face in confusion. Dean shoots his brother a confused look right back as he enters the kitchen. He starts up his coffee pot and still feels Sam’s eyes on him.

          “Okay, what is it?” Dean groans. “What’s the matter?”

          “First off, good morning to you, too,” Sam sarcastically says. “Second, Adam’s Hotter-Than-Hell Chili Cook Off?”

          “What?”

          “Your shirt. What _is_ that? And why are your wrists bandaged?”

          Dean looks down. Oh yeah. “Oh, uh,”

          “And where are your shoes?”

          “Aw, man, I left them at—“ he stops short. If he says he left them at Castiel’s, he knows Sam will give him hell. He does not want to face endless teasing or lectures from his little brother.

          “Where?”

          “Work. I left them at work. No big deal.” Nice save.

          A knock comes from the door and both brothers frown in its direction. They exchange a look, deciding who was going to answer the door with a few eyebrow raises and a shrug on Sam’s part. Sam hops off the counter, sets aside his half-empty cereal bowl, and walks to the door while Dean begins pouring himself another cup of coffee. He is stirring heaps of sugar and creamer in, half listening to the click and slight creak of the door opening. “Oh, hey, Castiel,” Sam is saying and Dean’s head snaps up.

           _Shit._

          He nearly tosses the coffee cup down, exiting the kitchen as he hears Castiel answer, “Hello, Sam. Your brother forgot his clothing and shoes and I was hoping to return them to him.”

          And Dean skids to a stop a foot behind Sam as his younger brother grabs the clothing from Castiel’s outstretched arms. “Hello, Dean,” Castiel says as he notices the elder Winchester’s frantic arrival.

          Sam turns around. And, yep. There it is. That shit-eating grin. At least Castiel put actual shorts on before returning the clothes so Dean could focus better on fending off Sam’s teasing.

          “So, _that’s_ what the chili cook-off shirt is.” Sam teases, voice lilting up and down.

          “What?” Dean scoffs.

          “The walk of shame outfit.” Sam snickers. “The morning after ensemble.”

          “What?” Castiel asks and Dean feels his face burning.

          “No! It is not any of those things!” Dean says, snatching his clothes from Sam.

          “Oh _my gosh_ , Dean,” Sam groans with a smile. “It’s okay. You know I’m cool with it.”

          Dean leans into Sam’s space as he hisses between his teeth, “Yeah, I know you’re cool with it, but it didn’t happen.”

          “Castiel, did my brother stay with you last night?” Sam asks the man behind him.

          “Yes..?” Castiel replies slowly, looking more confused each second.

          “Yeah, but we didn’t do anything.” Dean sighs loudly.

          “I cared for your brother’s needs,” Castiel tells Sam and _ohmygod could he have worded that any weirder?!_ Dean shoots Castiel a look that he hopes conveys both _what the hell_ and _please shut up._

          Sam whips back to Dean and says, “Ew.”

          “No! Not… Not those needs!”

          “Dean, I know everything about you and you’ve brought other guys home before, why are you lying now?” Sam sounds exasperated and Dean is burning from embarrassment because Cas is right there and he knows Dean is a whore and now he knows Dean likes men and Cas only likes him as a friend and he’s so cute and Dean explodes, “I did not have sex with Cas! He was NOT my cli—He’s a nurse! I got hurt. He fixed me up. I crashed at his place. That’s all. The end.”

          Sam’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing in front of Castiel.

          “Yeah, we did not have sex.” Castiel chimes in and Dean looks up from Sam to where his neighbor is and sees that Castiel is blushing, too, tinting his face and neck a deep shade of pink.

          Sam pulls a face and Dean can tell he finally believes him. “Oh, uh, sorry, guys,” he apologizes.

          “It’s alright, Sam,” Castiel says with a soft smile. “It’s a common misconception that my intentions are to get others into bed.” His eyes glint as he says the last part, looking to Dean briefly. _Wait. Was that an inside joke about last night?_ A quick wink in his direction confirms Dean’s thoughts and causes more confusion for Sam.

          Castiel waves before extracting himself from the awkward situation. Once the door closes behind their neighbor, Sam turns to Dean. “You had a client that hurt you, didn’t you?”

          “No, well, yeah, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” Dean huffs, weaving around Sam.

          “You clearly couldn’t handle it, since Castiel-- the nurse-- had to help you!” Sam snaps.

          “Sam, it’s really not a big deal. Dude just got a little rough with handcuffs.” Dean lifts his bandaged wrists, choosing not to mention his back. “Do you want me to go into full detail about the appointment? Because I sure as hell hope not.”

          Sam grimaces, then sighs, “I just want you to stop this. I can get a job? I can help pay bills.”

          Dean feels a pang in his chest. The last thing he wants is to ask his teenage brother to help him with bills. He wants Sam to have the childhood he never had. He shakes his head. “Sam, minimum wage isn’t even gonna scrape the top. This guy is what’s keeping us afloat. He’s paying me one thousand dollars per week… I can’t say no to that.”

          Sam’s eyes are sad, but he solemnly nods. “Just… promise me you’ll stop if it gets too bad?”

          “Yeah, Sam, I’ll stop if it gets too bad.” Dean softly replies, patting the young man’s shoulder before heading into his room.

****

          Dean drops Sam off at school before heading to the shop. He still has a lingering ache in his spine, but goes about his day as normally as possible. He picks up Sam from school in the middle of fixing a car’s wiring, dragging the teen back to the shop for the last couple of hours of his shift. Sam sits in Bobby’s office, working on his homework and conversing with Dean’s boss occasionally. Dean gets out from the car’s driver’s seat after testing all the systems. He goes around and slams the hood shut before heading into the office to clock out. Sam sees Dean coming and starts shoving his things into his backpack. Bobby looks up from the crossword he is staring at and says, “Smart brother ya got here.”

          “So I’ve heard,” Dean says, smiling proudly. He swipes his card and asks, “Ready, Sammy?”

          “Yep,” Sam hops to his feet, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

          They leave the shop through the back door, hollering ‘goodbyes’ to Bobby behind them. On the ride home, Sam is texting furiously. Dean tries to glance at the phone, but Sam leans away. He shields his screen from Dean’s prying eyes. Dean leans over again at a red light and Sam whines, “Stop, Dean!”

          “Who are you texting?” Dean asks.

          “None of your business”

          “Uh, I pay the phone bill. It is kinda my business.”

          “Eyes on the road, jerk,” Sam says, pointing to the light that is shining green now.

          “Fine.” Dean huffs, looking back at the road as Sam looks back at his cell.

          Sam strides into the house, dropping his backpack in his room before turning to Dean. “Do you need your bandages changed?”

          “What? No.” Dean shakes his head. He does not want Cas coming over. Avoiding his neighbor was on the top of his to-do list right now.

          “But you’re all sweaty and gross.” Sam points out, wrinkling his nose.

          “So I’ll take a shower.” Dean huffs.

          “I can just get Castiel real quick and—“

          “Sam! Please!” Dean exclaims with annoyance. “I can do this myself. I don’t need Cas coming over and patching me up. I’m fine.”

          Sam sighs, rolling his eyes. Dean steps into the bathroom before his brother can pester him about the subject any longer. He lets the water wash over his body, feeling the slight sting as it hits his back. After showering, he towels dry and throws on a loose shirt and pair of briefs. He sits down on the couch when a knock comes from the door. Sam walks past Dean, giving him a meaningful look on his way to the door. “You didn’t.” Dean growls, but he hears Castiel’s voice at the door. He flushes red when Castiel walks into the room.

          “Hello, Dean.” Castiel greets him.

          “Heya, Cas,” Dean waves, glaring past the nurse at his little brother.

          “I’m here to change your bandages.” Castiel says as he approaches the couch.

          “I figured.”

          “Will you remove your shirt?” Castiel asks as he sanitizes his hands and pulls on a pair of latex gloves.

          Dean does as he is told, wadding the shirt up in his hands. He blushes, realizing he is only in his underwear. He places his shirt in his lap quickly, but Castiel catches the movement and his lips quirk upwards slightly. Sam has wandered out of the room and Dean kind of wishes he hadn’t because he doesn’t want to be alone with Castiel right now. Not after the kiss and the revelation of his job and who he really is. “Lie down on your stomach,” Castiel says softly and Dean nods once, lying across the couch with his chin resting on his forearms. The sting of the antiseptic Castiel applies makes Dean hiss at first, but soon it’s over and the man is applying gauze.

          Dean looks back at Castiel and takes in the light blue scrubs he is wearing and how they make him look more tan and how his hair seems darker and eyes bluer. Castiel meets Dean’s gaze momentarily, but Dean looks away hurriedly. “Did you work today?” Castiel asks softly.

          “Uh, yeah. At the shop.” Dean clarifies, blushing.

          “You need to be more careful,” Castiel instructs, placing a strip of medical tape over some of the gauze. “You had pulled at your stitches some. Nothing bad, but you could have ripped them out.”

          “Oh, uh, sorry,”

          “It’s alright.” Castiel shrugs.

          “What about you? Did you, uh, work today?” Dean asks, wincing at how awkward this conversation is. What’s next? Talking about the weather?

          Castiel finishes up and steps back, stretching his back out. “No, I’m actually going in in thirty minutes.” Dean sits up, watching Castiel pack away his things. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

          “I am. Thanks.” Dean says, pulling his shirt back on. “Sorry. That you had to deal with me, I mean.”

          “It’s no trouble at all,” Castiel says simply. “I, uh, actually have been thinking… And…”

          This is sounding personal. Abort. Abort. Dean’s mind is in panic mode when Sam meanders around the corner. “Sam!” he interrupts Castiel’s stammering.

          “What’s up?” Sam asks, frowning at Dean’s loudness.

          “Uh, I was just wondering if you needed help on any homework?” Dean asks, seeing Castiel step back a little more.

          “Uh… no?”

          “Oh, okay, then,” Dean replies awkwardly.

          “Well, I’m going to work now.” Castiel says, seeming semi-disappointed. “Can we… talk sometime?”

          “Sure,” Dean lies smoothly. _No, let’s never talk. Forget about me. Let me die of embarrassment._ He stands and walks Castiel to the door.

          “Goodbye, Dean.”

          “See ya later,”

          The door closes and Sam’s voice rings from the table, “That was super awkward.”

           “Shut it, Sam.” Dean calls back. He walks away from the door and stands across from Sam at the table. “And do not text him again. I don’t want him to have to deal with me. This is my problem. Not his.”

          “Dean, I was just trying to help,” Sam says softly, staring down at his calculus papers.

          Dean tips his head back with a sigh. “I know, man, and I appreciate you caring, but… It won’t work.”

          “What?” Sam looks up at Dean from under his floppy hair.

          “Me and Cas.” Dean shrugs. “It’s not gonna happen.”

          “But why n—“

          “He said he didn’t want me, okay?” Dean cut Sam off harshly.

          “He didn’t say that… Did he?”

          Dean shrugs, the anger from before fizzling away.

          “When did he say that?” Sam sets aside his pencil, giving Dean a skeptical look.

          “Last night.”

          “Last night?!” Sam exclaims. “You asked him out after being beaten by your client?!”

          Dean cringes and tilts his head from one side to another. “I didn’t ask him out…”

          “Then what did you as… You did _not_ try to sell yourself to him.” Sam’s voice even sounds like a bitchface.

          Dean doesn’t answer, reaching to scratch the back of his neck.

          “Ohmygawd.”

          “Well, I thought that, maybe, I dunno… I guess.” Dean defends himself.

          “Dean. Have you ever thought before speaking?”

          “Shaddup.”

          “You don’t offer yourself to people you want to date. And you especially don’t do it right after having sex with a client who beat the crap out of you.” Sam wails, flailing his arms around.

          “Well, Sam, whatever. Because we’re not going to date. Because people like Castiel don’t date sluts.”

          “Dean, c’mon…” Sam’s eyes are sad, but Dean is already marching into his room.

****

          Dean ignores Castiel’s texts the next day and goes to the supermarket and the hardware store to kill time since the shop is closed on the weekends. He gets home at four in the afternoon to Sam grumbling, “You’re acting like a twelve-year-old.” But whatever. Dean removes his bandages and carefully washes his back. The process of putting bandages on is ridiculously hard, but he refuses to call Castiel and won’t ask Sam for help because God knows the brat will just tell him to call Castiel. He sighs, giving up after covering the cut that had needed stitches. _Cas should just stop pitying me and move on to his next pro-bono charity case._  The rest can just air out. He pulls on a loose shirt and sweatpants before sitting out on his balcony. The air is getting colder and it hits him in the face like ice. He stares out at the fading sunlight, thinking back to when he and Castiel sat out here. It seems like ages ago. He bites his lip, looking to his left at the wall that separates his apartment and Castiel’s. _It’s better this way. He’s better without me in his life._

          Sunday morning, Dean falls out of bed at nine-thirty to the sound of the doorbell. He rubs his eyes, tripping as he clambers into his sweatpants again and shuffles to the door. He’s frowning—he had wanted to sleep in today—when he pulls open the front door. Castiel. Castiel is standing there. On his doorstep. Wearing jeans and a yellow and black striped sweater. Dean straightens, hand immediately smoothing over his bedhead to try to look more presentable.

          “Good morning, Dean.” Castiel says, looking awkward and nervous. “I brought you coffee.”

          And Dean looks and sees two Starbucks cups in Castiel’s hands. “Oh. Uh, come in.” he mumbles, finally starting to wake up.

          Castiel steps around him into the apartment and holds out one of the steaming cups to Dean after he closes the front door. Dean takes it, looking down at his Metallica shirt and grey sweats. Castiel is fumbling with his cup and Dean realizes _Castiel_ is _awake_ right now. At nine thirty. And he has _been_ awake. Because he got coffee.

          “Why are you awake?” he asks, unable to stop the words before they left his lips. Maybe Sam has a point about thinking before speaking…

          Castiel looks like he’s been put on the spot and he looks down at his cup. “I wanted to talk to you. And you aren’t answering my texts.”

          “Oh, yeah. Sorry, I just…” Dean can’t even come up with a good lie.

          “So, can we talk?”

          “Yeah, yeah, of course.” Dean nods, looking toward Sam’s room where the door is slightly ajar. “Can we talk on the balcony?”

          Castiel nods and Dean follows him out, pulling the sliding glass door shut behind himself. Castiel is leaning back against the railing and is sipping on his hot coffee. Dean sits in one of the two plastic chairs, the cool morning air making him more grateful that Cas brought the Starbucks. They’re quiet for a few moments, just sipping on their drinks. It’s uncomfortable and Dean doesn’t know if he should start or if Castiel is going to. He opens his mouth, but closes it when Castiel looks at him with that strange intensity.

          “Why were you ignoring my texts?” Castiel asks.

          “Wow. We’re getting right to it, huh?” Dean chuckles awkwardly before frowning down at his bare feet. “I dunno, man… I was embarrassed and, you know. It was awkward.”

          “Why?” the man tilts his head.

          “Because I like you and you’re, like, my friend and my doctor. And you don’t want me like that, anyways, so…” Dean shrugs, fiddling with the lid on his cup.

          “Like you like what? What does that imply?” Castiel bristles slightly.

          “It just means… Damnit, Cas. It means that you don’t want a relationship with me. You don’t want to date me. You don’t want to date a whore. You don’t want to hold hands or go to the movies or any of that crap with me.” Dean replies, gesturing broadly with his hand.

          “Are you saying I want you another way?” he asks stiffly.

          Dean shrugs a shoulder and mutters, “I thought so, but the other night you turned me down.”

          Castiel sets his coffee on the ground and takes a seat in the chair beside Dean. He looks out at the horizon for a long time. When he finally looks at Dean, he seems calmer. Focused. “I have found you attractive for a long time.” He begins, causing Dean’s cheeks to flush slightly. “So, after a while, I stepped out of my comfort zone and spoke to you and we became friends. And I hoped that, maybe now that we were friends, I wouldn’t be so attracted to you, but…” he shrugs and smiles. “You were funny and kind and interesting. Then, I saw you were hurt and you told me of your occupation…”

          Dean looks away from Castiel, bracing himself.

          “And it was infuriating because I still wanted to spend every second with you, getting to know you. I thought it over a lot. Thought about it more than I should have. And if I were to date you, it would be unfair of me to ask you to quit your job. It would also not be ideal to watch you go to someone else for their pleasure.” Castiel frowns at this sentence. “But I still want to try.”

          “What?” Dean gapes, staring at Castiel as though he has grown a second head.

          “I would like to take you to dinner tonight, if that’s alright with you..?” Castiel asks shyly.

          “What are you..? But I’m—I’m a…” Dean stammers.

          “Would you like to go on a date with me?” Castiel asks, looking at Dean from under dark eyelashes.

          “Uh, yeah. Okay.”

****

          “What are you guys doing?”  Sam prods, looking up from where he is sprawled across Dean’s bed.

          “I don’t know.” Dean replies, rummaging through his closet.

          “Well, where are you going?” Sam asks, propping his head up with his chin in his hands.

          “I don’t know.” Dean sighs, settling on jeans, a tee, and a plaid over shirt.

          “Oh, so Cas is mysterious.” Sam teases. “You’re into the tall, dark, and handsome type, huh?”

          “Please, stop,” Dean begs, pulling his AC/DC shirt over his head before throwing the plaid on over it.

          He gives himself a once-over in the mirror. _I guess that’s good…_ He runs his fingers through his hair one more time before sitting on the edge of his bed and tugging on his sneakers. He looks behind him at Sam and huffs out a breath. He can’t believe he’s about to talk to his little brother about feelings, but whatever. This will be like early Christmas for the teen.

          “Can I, uh, can I ask you something?” he manages to choke out the words.

          “Sure,” Sam replies, shrugging one shoulder.

          “Uh, so, it’s been awhile since I’ve… Ya know, been on an actual date… And I’m not sure I can do this.” Dean stammers, scrubbing a hand over his face.

          “What do you mean?” Sam frowns. “You have to go! Cas’ll be here in, like, ten minutes!”

          “I know! I’m not bailing, give me some credit.” Dean huffs. “I just don’t know how to… act? I guess? What do I say? Does he expect me to… put out on the first date?” Sam makes a face and Dean groans, “I’m trying to confide in you! _Please_ , don’t look at me like that.”

          Sam lets out a laugh, pushing himself to a seat. He crosses his legs and leans back against the wall, saying, “First of all, as long as you’re yourself and you’re honest, I don’t think it really matters what you say. I mean, c’mon, he asked you out knowing you’re an… escort, so you really can’t surprise him.”

          Dean makes a noncommittal grunting noise with the shrug of his shoulders.

          “Second, I doubt Castiel is the type of guy who kisses on a first date, much less tries to get into your pants.”

          “Well, I kind of already blew that by kissing him in the car.”

          “Well, it wasn’t exactly bad that you did…” Sam says, a knowing glint in his hazel eyes.

          “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asks, turning to face his brother.

          “Nothing.”

          “No, you know something. Spit it out.”

          “Well, Cas told me that he was unsure if you were interested in him or not until you kissed him.” Sam says casually, pulling at a loose string hanging from his shirt.

          “What? Wait. Cas told you?” Dean feels his face growing red. “You talk about me?!”

          “Yeah, we text, but it’s not _always_ about _you_. He’s a pretty cool guy; he helps me with my biology homework sometimes.”

          “Bitch.”

          “Jerk.” Sam laughs, continuing, “He likes you, Dean. And you’re a great guy, really. Just go have a good time.”

          There’s a knock on the door and Dean takes a deep breath before pushing himself to his feet. Sam rolls off the bed and follows him to the front door. Dean pauses, composing himself before pulling it open. Castiel looks up from toeing at a pebble and smiles. The blue in his simple, crisp button-up make his eyes shine and Dean is lost in them. “Hello, Dean.”

          “Heya, Cas,” Dean replies, waving. He stops mid-wave, jerking his hand back to his side and feeling really dorky.

          Castiel leans around him and says, “Hello, Sam.”

          “Hey, Castiel,” Sam grins broadly. “You two have fun. And don’t have him out too late, he’s got to take me to school in the morning.”

          Castiel nods, a smile ghosting at his lips.

          “Bye, Sammy,” Dean laughs, stepping out into the cool, afternoon air with Castiel. The door thumps closed behind him and he looks over at Castiel, asking, “My car or yours?”

          “I forgot you drove the pimp-mobile.” Dean jokes, eyeing the gold car with slight distaste.

          “I like my car.” Castiel says with pride as he squints at Dean. He rolls his sleeves up before getting into the car. The drive is quiet save for the radio playing at a low volume for the first few minutes before Dean asks, “What’s the plan for tonight?”

          “Hmm?” Castiel asks, not looking away from the road. “Oh, well, it’s a surprise.”

          “Aw, c’mon,” Dean pretends to whine. “Tell me.”

          Castiel’s lips quirk upwards slightly, breaking his determined glare at the road ahead. He doesn’t reply, just shrugs his shoulders.

          “Cas, please,” Dean says after a beat of impatiently waiting for his date to crack. “I need to know.”

          “Why do you need to know?” Castiel asks, lifting an eyebrow.

          “Well, if we are going ice-skating, then I dressed too light. What if I’m not wearing the right shoes?” Dean says.

          “What shoes are you wearing?”

          “Uh, tennis shoes.”

          “Your footwear is adequate, Dean.”

          Dean chuckles a little at the response, leaning back into his seat. “Fine, don’t tell me.” He concedes, turning up the radio a little as a Maroon 5 song comes on. He nods along to the song, trying to listen to the words and look at the malls and stores flashing by them, but his curiosity is killing him. He chews on his lip before releasing a loud breath. Castiel only smirks, taking an exit and driving through the uncrowded streets.

          Castiel finally pulls into a parking spot on the street. Dean looks around at the area; it’s in the nicer part of downtown Dallas full of shops selling jewelry and one-of-a-kind furniture. Most of the stores are closed now as the early onset of nightfall pours over the skies; the lights inside the shops shining dimly through the large storefront windows, signs flipped to read “sorry we’re closed.” Dean steps out of the car and up onto the sidewalk, watching Castiel pass under the yellow light of the street lamp, looking like an angel as the light hits his angular face. The cold breeze makes Dean shudder and he stuffs his hands into his blue jeans’ pockets as he looks up and down the street. There were only two other cars out, Dean notes as another breeze comes from the purple-tinted sky.

          “Where to?” he asks.

          “It’s still a surprise,” Castiel says, gliding past Dean down the sidewalk.

          Dean falls into step with Castiel, glimpsing into jewelry stores decorated with cacti and bleached longhorn skulls and mom and pop clothing stores that looked like they would be warm and smell of leather. He bumps into Castiel, who has finally come to a stop. Dean looks from his date to the store they are standing in front of. It’s a smaller store, the large, glass window reading Cloud 9 Bakery in curvy font across it. Dean peers inside and can see that it’s a bakery, the racks that usually display the goods empty for the night. The shop was dark except for a light coming from a door behind the counter, leading into the back area. “What are we--?” he begins, but stops as Castiel pushes the glass door open, the bell tingling overhead.

          “Cas!” he whispers, eyes darting down the street before he enters the shop. “Are we allowed in here?”

          “Dean-o!” a loud, familiar voice calls from the illuminated back area he had seen.

          Gabriel is sauntering out of the back, flour splashed down the front of his apron and along his forearms. He’s wiping his hands on a white towel and before Dean can ask what’s going on, the smell hits him. It’s warm and savory and sweet, smelling like peaches and garlic and bread and everything wonderful.

          “Have a seat, you lovebirds!” Gabriel says, flipping on the overhead light.

          “Uh, what’s going on?” Dean asks as sees a small, round table set up in the middle of the small bakery floor, the wood scuffed slightly.

          “Gabriel only works part-time at the hospital. He only takes extreme cases because he does not enjoy being in the hospital too long; he finds it depressing.” Castiel says as he takes a seat in one of the two chairs at the table. “This is his bakery. He enjoys cooking and baking—mostly sweets.”

          Dean nods as he listens, sitting across from Castiel. He opens his mouth to respond, but Gabe’s voice calls out from the back, “Father thinks the shop is silly, but Cassie has always been supportive.”

          Gabriel walks through the door with two red solo cups nearly sloshing over with ice water. He sets them on the table before heading back into the kitchen. Dean waits and watches as Gabe walks back and forth between the kitchen and their table, depositing two plates, silverware, and a glass casserole pan full of lasagna on the small table. Dean’s eyebrows raise; Italian food is his favorite and lasagna is, easily, top three. Gabriel stands beside their table and smiles, looking quite proud of himself, wiping a smear of red sauce on his apron. He claps his hands together, looking between Dean and Castiel with a smile.

          “Alright, you two,” he playfully says, “enjoy dinner. Your check is waiting on the counter”—Castiel gives him a scowl—“Just kidding, Cassie! But in twenty minutes, you will need to pull the pie out of the oven in there. And remember to shut it off afterwards.”

          “Of course, Gabriel.” Castiel says with a nod and a setting a timer his phone. “Thank you.”

          “Anything for my favorite brother.” Gabriel smiles broadly, meandering towards the front door. “The key is on the counter. Lock up when you finish.”

          “I will,” Castiel nods.

          Gabriel is halfway out the door before he dips his head back in and adds, “And don’t have sex in the kitchen. I’ve gotta keep it clean just in case there’s a surprise inspection. If you have to make sweet love in the bakery, do it out here; the inspector never checks this area too well.”

          Dean raises his eyebrows, looking at Castiel. The other man is pink from his neck to his dark brown hair. Gabriel is gone in a flash, the bell jingling as the door thumps closed and Castiel looks mortified.

          “I never told him we were going to have sex—Not that we are, of course. I mean, unless you want to, but—shit.” Castiel swears, dropping his bright red face into his hands. “I apologize.”

          Dean stifles a laugh, biting his lip. “It’s no big deal, Cas,” he says, a giggle breaking loose.

          “I’m sorry… That was inappropriate of me to say, I just…” Castiel sighs, dropping his hands to his lap and gazing at his plate sheepishly. His cheeks are still bright with a flush, making Dean’s heart stutter.

          Dean shrugs a shoulder, scooping himself some lasagna onto his paper plate. “Don’t worry about it, man. I’ve had _much_ more inappropriate things said to me.”

          Castiel’s head snaps up to look at Dean and he gives him a smirk in return. Castiel quietly scoops some lasagna for himself after that. They eat quietly and Dean wonders if he went too far, but before he can think too long on it, Castiel asks, “Is the lasagna alright?”

          “It’s so good.” Dean says, stuffing another bite into his mouth. “You’ve gotta get the recipe to me.”

          “I’ll see what I can do.” Castiel says, looking up from under his lashes.

          They eat in silence for a few minutes before Dean says, “So, Sam says you guys are texting?”

          Castiel nods as he chews a mouthful of the Italian dish. After drinking some water, he replies, “Yeah, he initially asked me for help on some chemistry homework and with anatomical diagrams for another science class. He seems to be in very advanced courses.”

          “Yeah, he’s taking the college-credit courses offered and some advanced placement classes,” Dean says with a smile. “He’s super-smart, like, a genius almost. And I’m not just saying that cuz I’m his brother.”

          “He says you often help him in mathematics and English,” Castiel offers and Dean scoffs.

          “Yeah, that stuff’s easy as pie,” He says, pushing a piece of lasagna around his plate.

          “English can be difficult.” Castiel says, squinting a little. Dean shrugs and Castiel asks, “Where is he considering going for college?”

          “Uh, he’s been accepted to Stanford, Berkley, the University of Southern California, and Brigham Young.” Dean lists of, looking at the cream-colored walls as he thinks. “A couple others, too, but those are his top choices.”

          “He’s unsure?” Castiel asks.

          Dean sighs, propping his chin in his hand as he rests his elbow on the table. “I know he wants to go to Stanford; it’s always been his dream. But he’s worried about the cost, so he’s trying to convince himself to go somewhere else.”

          “It is pretty expensive,” Castiel says with a frown.

          “Yeah, but the thing is, he’ll never have another chance at this. I mean, it’s _Stanford_!” Dean gushes, smiling. “How many people get accepted there?! He’s so smart and he’s applied to scholarships and all that… It’s not ideal, but…” Dean’s smile droops a little and he looks tired, “I don’t want him turning down his dream. You can’t turn down something that big. We can make it work.”

          Castiel nods silently, opting to eat the last of the lasagna on his plate rather than respond right away. “Is that why you took on this current job?” he finally asks, setting aside his fork to wipe his hands on his napkin.

          Dean looks down at his paper plate smeared with pasta sauce and remnants of the meal. “Uh, yeah… I mean, it’s why I took on my latest client. I’ve had the job for a while.” He fiddles with his solo cup, sounding blasé about it.

          “How long?” Castiel asks slowly, watching Dean.

          “A couple years or so,” Dean shrugs. “I mean, the auto shop pays well, but it’s not open on weekends so I can’t always get all the hours I need. This helps put food on the table, so.”

          “Dean,” Castiel says and Dean tenses up, waiting for another question, but Castiel’s phone starts chiming loudly on the table. Dean’s about to ask who was on the phone, but remembers as Castiel stands that he had set a timer for the pie. “I’d better get that out of the oven.” He says, walking towards the partition to get behind the counter.

          Dean stands, too. “Can I come?” he asks, sidling up behind Cas.

          Castiel nods and they walk behind the counter and through the door into a small hall with one door on each side. “The office is in there,” Castiel says, pointing to the closed door on the left before walking into the open doorway on the right. Dean follows Castiel into the kitchen where music is playing. He stops to listen to the tune before getting distracted looking at the racks used to let the breads rise and the cake pans and pie tins and the broad assortment of decorating tools in labeled drawers. Castiel is walking towards an industrial-sized oven, grabbing a mitt off the counter, and pulling the door open. Warmth surges into the room from the oven, feeling good on Dean’s slightly-cold face. Castiel pulls out the pie and Dean practically drools as the smell of peaches and cinnamon waft over him like a summer breeze. Castiel sets it on the counter, the movement causing a piece of stationery to flutter off the countertop and onto the black and white tile floor. Dean scoops it up as Castiel is turning off the oven. He reads over it and blushes slightly before saying, “Uh, Gabriel left this for you.”

          The paper reads: _“Cassie, remember to turn off the oven! Oh, and I turned on the radio in here for you. Go to the office and turn on the main speakers so it will play in the lobby. I know you want to ask Dean to dance. Look at his legs; he could be a great dancer. Kisses, Gabe.”_

          Castiel shakes his head with a laugh, setting aside the note and oven mitt. “I guess I could turn on the speakers…?” he says, looking nervous as he turns for the hallway.       

          Dean catches him by the shoulder as he passes and says, “Or we can dance in here?”

          “Oh. Alright.” Castiel says with a nod.

          Dean takes Castiel’s left hand in his right, placing his other hand on the man’s waist as Cas places his free hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean stares into Castiel’s eyes for a moment, realizing that they should be moving. They wait for two seconds and the next song begins. Dean slowly begins swaying as the sound of piano radiates through the room. Castiel follows his lead, keeping a respectable distance as he looks into Dean’s eyes with an odd sort of intensity. The singer’s crooning voice rolls off Dean’s shoulders, relaxing his stiff posture and he looks back at Castiel, trying to read the expression. It’s a strange sort of look. Not lust or hunger or anything he’s used to.

          “You have beautiful eyes,” Castiel comments sincerely.

          Dean ducks his head bashfully. “Thanks, uh, thank you…” he trips over his response, not used to compliments like that. Compliments that aren’t based on his performance or used as something to try to seduce him. He knows Castiel is being genuine and it’s… different. He lifts his head to meet Castiel’s gaze again, saying, “I like your eyes, too.”

          Castiel’s lips curve upwards slightly.

          “So, can I ask you a question?” Dean asks, voice quiet.

          “Yes, Dean,” Castiel nods.

          “What made you want to become a nurse?”

          “I wanted to help people.” Castiel says, as though it was obvious.

          “But, like, why not be a doctor? Too much school?”

          Castiel shakes his head, swaying with Dean slowly across the floor. “My father wanted me to pursue being a surgeon, but I couldn’t see myself doing that. The pressures and weight of someone’s life being in your hands as you operate… But I still wanted to help people and nurses are there before, during, and after. We deal with preparation months before and… I felt called to nursing. I know that may sound silly--”

          “No, it doesn’t. That’s awesome,” Dean says for lack of a better word.

          Castiel rests his head on Dean’s shoulder and Dean feels his heart flutter in his chest. He wraps his hand around Castiel’s waist, drawing him closer as they dance. Dean turns his face to where Castiel’s head rests on his shoulder and breathes in deeply. Castiel smells like cinnamon and sunshine. He nuzzles Castiel’s bedhead, not thinking. Just breathing Castiel in and drinking in the moment. He lays his head on Castiel’s other shoulder, feeling Castiel’s soft hair tickling his face. Castiel tells Dean about how he gardens on his patio and enjoys watching the bees pollinating his flowers. Dean laughs at stories of Gabriel and Luke causing mischief as children and recounts tales of his own. They dance in silence as song after song plays. Castiel pulls away and looks up at him with galaxies swirling in his eyes.

          “Can I ask you something else?” Dean asks softly, hoping he isn’t ruining a moment.

          “Yes,” Castiel mumbles.

          “Why did you do all this for me?” Dean asks. “I mean, the pie… Lasagna… I know Sam told you those were my favorites…” he looks Castiel in the eye, searching for an answer. “I mean, this is great, but why all the trouble?”

          “I guess I just wanted to impress you.” Castiel replies, biting his lip. “I assume, in your line of work, you’ve been taken all kinds of places and I just wanted to do something different.”

          “Well, this is very different to my work.” Dean chuckles, pulling out of the dance. “Nobody takes me out.”

          Castiel frowns, taking a step back. “You mean you don’t get a chance to know them first?”

          Dean shakes his head, walking over to the pie and pulling out two paper plates and a knife. “Nah, Crowley—my boss—sets up appointments based on their preferences and whatnot.” Dean responds, slicing himself and Castiel each a good sized piece of peach pie.

          He hands Castiel a plate, looking for silverware. He finds plastic spoons in a drawer and pulls out two before turning back to see Castiel swiping some peach filling up on his pointer finger and bringing it to his lips. Dean tracks the motion, licking his lips because damn, it’s not fair that Cas looks so good. Their eyes meet and Dean holds out a spoon for him, trying to look innocent and not like he was imagining incredibly dirty things. Dean moans around the first bite of pie, earning a chuckle from Castiel.

           “Dude.” Dean says around the mouthful of pie.

           “I’m assuming you like it?” Castiel inquires, taking a bite of his warm slice of pie.

          Dean nods vigorously with a grin.

          “I’ll try to get you this recipe as well, but Gabe is very secretive about his pie recipes.” Castiel offers with a mischievous smile. “But I could get it for you for a fair price.”

          “Anything. Say the word and it’s yours. I’ll sell Sam to you for this recipe.” Dean laughs loudly.

          Castiel looks up at Dean and asks, “Would you go out with me again?”

          Dean isn’t expecting this response and looks at Castiel with surprise. “What?”

          “Would you like to go on another date? With me?” Castiel asks, blue eyes twinkling as he looks away from the remainder of his pie.

          Dean is unprepared for the question. “Uh, yes.” He says eloquently.

          Castiel gives Dean a bright smile and Dean can’t understand why Castiel is wasting his time on him, but he’s willing to take all he can get.

****                                                                            

          Over the next week, Dean receives texts from Sam, Castiel, and Alistair. Sam mainly texts to tease him about Castiel while he’s at school. “Don’t you have other things to do in class besides text me?” Dean groans one day. “Like, I don’t know… study?”

          “Dean, it’s the beginning of December. Nobody is teaching anything.” Sam replies with an eye-roll. “So, when’s your next date?”

          Castiel texts him sporadically. Asking how he is, telling him about his job, asking about the second date. And Alistair schedules another appointment one week after Dean and Castiel’s first date. Dean hopes it doesn’t leave him too battered as he and Castiel had planned the day after to have their second date.

          He takes a deep breath, standing outside of Alistair’s door after he knocks. The door opens slowly and Dean is ushered in by a bony hand and a leering grin. Alistair places a hand on the back of Dean’s neck and pulls him through the apartment and into the dimly lit spare room. Cuffs are tightly locked around his wrists and ankles, but the metal doesn’t cut into his exposed flesh. He knows not to struggle now; not to jerk or pull or twist. Alistair doesn’t seem to be into blood play today; he is more interested in getting Dean to obey. To do as he says. Follow his rules. Dean does as he is told, speaking when spoken to. He focuses on tomorrow night. Castiel had said that it was his turn to pick what they do on their date. He tries thinking of what Cas would like. What he wants to do. He’s so lost in thought that he misses a command. A spluttered, “excuse me?” passes his lips seconds before  Alistair slaps Dean across the face. Dean reels back from the blow; Alistair’s cold, silver ring had landed just below his left eye socket. He feels the stinging pain, but there is not sticky warmth of blood. Alistair’s voice is low and angry as he gives the next command. Dean obeys. He doesn’t want to have to cancel with Castiel. He doesn’t want to ruin one of the few things he’s got going for him. He closes his eyes and focuses on the backs of his eyelids as Alistair’s spindly fingers jerk him around.

****

          “Is it cheesy?” Dean worries his bottom lip with his teeth as he pulls a shirt over his head. “And do you have to eat that on my bed?”

           “Relax. I’m not  gonna spill it.” Sam replies, looking up from his plate of mashed potatoes and meatloaf. “It is a bit cheesy… But I think Cas’ll like it.”

          Dean sighs, turning back to his reflection in the mirror. He winces at the greenish-purple bruises developing under his eye and around his throat, but hopes the dim lighting of his date idea’s location will be enough to cover them up. He looks up as the doorbell rings, ignoring Sam’s comment about how his “prince charming has arrived.” He grabs his leather jacket from where it is draped over the back of the couch before heading to the front door. He opens it as he stuffs his right arm into the sleeve. A gush of cold air hits his face and Castiel’s blue eyes meet his with a small smile. He knows when Castiel notices the bruises because the smile turns a bit more forced and the blue eyes swirl with some upset emotion.

          “Are you alright?” he asks softly.

          Dean nods his head once, shoving his left arm into the jacket before pulling it all the way on over his Star Wars shirt. “’m fine, Cas. You ready to roll?”

          Castiel nods, asking, “Where are we going?”

          “It’s a surprise.” Dean replies with a smirk.

          “And it’s super lovey-dovey!” Sam’s voice comes from behind Dean.

          “Shut it, Sam.”

          “Jerk.”

          “Bitch.”

          Castiel follows Dean to the impala and they slide into their respective seats. Dean drives and they discuss Castiel’s job and his family. Dean turns off the highway and a large, neon sign shines brightly at the end of the road. Castiel’s eyes light up and he grins at Dean knowingly as Dean heads towards the giant, pink and turquoise glow of the sign that reads: _The Dallas Drive-In Theaters._ Dean pays at the gate before sliding the car into their assigned parking space.

          “You ever been to a drive in theater before?” Dean asks as he rolls his window down.

          Castiel shakes his head, turning to roll his window down as well before his gaze sweeps across the place. Dean looks around, too. The place is decked out to look old-timey, so much so that the mix of new cars along with the high-quality speakers outside his and Castiel’s windows look oddly  out of place. They are a little late and are in one of the last two rows of cars, but the screen is so large that there is no way they would miss any of the action. The movie starts with a bang and Castiel slips his shoes off to sit cross-legged in the seat.

          “Do you want anything from the concession stand?” Dean asks, pulling a twenty dollar bill from his wallet. “I’m gonna get a coke.”

          Castiel smiles over at Dean, replying, “Chocolate-covered raisins, if they have any.”

          Dean scrunches his nose. “You like raisins?”

          “Yes. Don’t you?”

          “They’re gross, dude. And pruney.”

          Castiel laughs and Dean wanders over to the stand, buying himself a large Dr. Pepper and Castiel a box of Raisinettes. He comes back to the car, half-watching where he’s going and half-watching the man and woman outrunning an assassin on-screen. “Here you go, sick-o,” he says, shaking the box of candy at Castiel as he plops back into the driver’s seat. Castiel gratefully accepts the candy, ripping the box open and eating a few.

          An hour into the movie, Dean notices Castiel looking at him. He looks over to Castiel and they exchange small smiles. Dean suddenly can’t focus on the film before him, sneaking sidelong glances at Cas as he pops chocolate raisins in his mouth. Dean slides across the seat and Castiel looks away from the screen. There’s a smear of chocolate on the corner of his mouth and Dean leans forward, murmuring, “You have some chocolate right there…” before he leans in and kisses it off. He pulls back and Castiel’s focus is solely on him. Dean is sucked into the tidal pools of Castiel’s eyes and he leans forward again to place a kiss to Castiel’s waiting lips. It’s slow and calm, but heat is bubbling in Dean’s veins. Castiel licks open Dean’s mouth and causes a groan to leave Dean’s throat. Cas tastes like chocolate and sticky sweet raisins. He feels hands carding through his hair before he grabs the lapels of Castiel’s silly trench and pulls him closer. Castiel pulls on Dean’s hair and Dean groans again, Castiel swallowing the sound hungrily.

          A cool breeze from the window hits the back of Dean’s neck and he doesn’t know if his goosebumps are caused by that or by the fact that Castiel is kissing his way down his throat. “Cas,” Dean breathily mumbles, keeping his voice down and thanking the Lord that the stall on their right is empty and the car on the left hasn’t looked over. Castiel’s hands are roaming Dean’s chest and Dean presses into the touch, hands rubbing Castiel’s arms and gripping the sleeves. Castiel moans Dean’s name before crawling into Dean’s lap and attaching his lips to Dean’s once more. Dean feels the hardness of Castiel’s erection against his and ruts against it as he kisses Castiel stupid.

          “Let’s… uuun… Let’s get out of here.” Dean murmurs.

****

          “ _Fuck_ , Cas,” Dean mumbles as Castiel sucks at his throat. The other man is all hands, mapping out every inch of Dean’s body over his clothes with shaky fingers.

          Castiel shoves Dean backwards into the door and kisses him hard on the lips, mouth moving like he’s starving for it. Dean reciprocates the kiss enthusiastically, breath stuttering when Castiel parts Dean’s legs with his thigh and grinds against him in a slow, teasing rhythm. Dean hums appreciatively as his tongue dances with the other man’s. Castiel sucks on his lower lip, letting it catch between his teeth with a few nips before he pulls back. Dean already misses the warm, wet cavern of Castiel’s mouth and moves to attach his lips to the stubbly bolt of his neighbor’s jaw. He knows how to move his lips and just when to flick his tongue. Dean laps at the other man’s jawline and throat, peppering it with kisses as his hands grip Castiel’s hips to stop the other man’s grinding.

          “Dean…” Castiel shudders as he breathes his name and Dean can’t help but smirk against Castiel’s exposed collarbone.

          “I’m gonna make you feel so good, Cas,” Dean says in a low, husky voice. “Gonna make you scream.”

          “Dean.” Castiel says and Dean looks up to meet Castiel’s gaze. The blue irises are nothing more than thin rings around blown pupils and Dean doesn’t have to look down to know that Castiel is already ridiculously hard. “Bedroom. Now.”

          Dean and Cas clumsily make their way from the front door to the bedroom, neither one of them wanting to stop touching or kissing or rubbing against the other for more than a second. Shoes are kicked off haphazardly, Castiel’s tie pulled from his neck and discarded, Dean’s leather jacket hits the floor with a muffled ‘thud.’ Once the two reach the bedroom door, Castiel messes with the knob  and Dean detaches himself to allow Castiel’s fumbling hands to grip it correctly and throw open the door.

          Dean follows Castiel into the dimly lit room as the raven-haired man stammers, “Sorry about the mess, I wasn’t expecting…”

          Dean rolls his eyes and takes Castiel by the shoulder, turning the man so that they are face-to-face again. Dean walks up on Castiel until their faces are mere inches apart, warm breaths co-mingling in the air and dancing across full, swollen lips. Castiel clamps his mouth shut, staring at Dean with an intensity that would be funny in any other context, but now only manages to arouse Dean more. Dean places a hand on Castiel’s chest, walking him backwards until the back of Castiel’s knees hit the mattress. Lips join in a slow, burning kiss as Dean lays Castiel down on the bed, hands moving to unbutton the crisp, white shirt. Once Castiel’s shirt is undone and pulled from where it had been neatly tucked into black slacks, Dean pulls back from the kiss slowly, watching as Castiel dazedly opens his eyes. He places his hands on either side of Castiel’s shoulders, holding his gaze as he lowers his head and licks a stripe up his tanned chest. Castiel’s hands flutter at his sides, gripping the comforter beneath him as Dean latches his lips around one of Castiel’s nipples, sucking and licking and nipping and pulling. Castiel’s chest rises and falls more rapidly and his hands alternate from grabbing the comforter to fisting handfuls of Dean’s black shirt. Soft, strangled noises escape Castiel’s pink lips as Dean moves to the other nipple, adoring it until Castiel moans long and loud, hips bucking up.

          “Dean… _Please_ …” Castiel’s voice is strained.

          Dean removes himself from Castiel’s nipple, and murmurs between placing sweet kisses to Castiel’s mouth and throat, “Anything you want, Cas.”

          Dean helps Castiel remove his arms from the sleeves of the business shirt before he pulls his own shirt off in the slow, tantalizing way his customers like him to. Castiel’s eyes are solely focused on the act, propping himself up on his elbows to allow his gaze to rake over Dean’s exposed torso. Dean sees the familiar look of lust and hunger in Castiel’s eyes along with something else. Something pure. He looks away, focusing on the task. “Damn, you’re hot Cas. You ready for this? I can’t wait for you to do all sorts of dirty things with me.” he says in a deep voice as he places his hands on the man’s chest, squeezing his reddened nipples slightly to elicit a choked noise from Castiel’s throat before moving his hands down to Castiel’s hips. Dean unbuttons the slacks and pulls them off Castiel in one fluid motion. He eyes the tent in Castiel’s briefs and smirks at Castiel’s flushed face.

          “Looks like you’re more than ready, huh, angel?” Dean rumbles, palming Castiel’s erection.

          Dean licks stripes across Castiel’s hip bones, feeling Castiel’s fingers card through his hair frantically. Dean holds Castiel’s hips down with both hands before rubbing his cheek against the tented fabric of Cas’s underwear. Castiel babbles incoherently, hips struggling to move beneath Dean’s firm grip. Dean mouths up Castiel’s covered shaft and then bites down on the elastic of the underwear. Ever so slowly, he pulls the briefs off of Castiel with his teeth, moaning as the man’s erection bobs up towards his stomach once released.

          “D-Dea--! Wait.” Castiel struggles to form coherent words between labored breaths and Dean removes his hands from Castiel’s skin and stands. “Are you… Are you sure you want to do this?”

          Dean pauses at the question. “What?”

          “I don’t want you to just be doing this because you feel you have to…” Castiel says, propping himself up on his elbows.

          “Believe me, Cas, I want to do this.” Dean replies with a wolfish smile.

          Castiel nods, laying back. “Okay then…. Stop teasing.”

          _Always listen to your client._

          Dean looks up with an obedient nod and removes the underwear the rest of the way, chucking them into a corner before pulling his own jeans off and stepping out of them. He is aware of Castiel watching, waiting for the big reveal. Dean sticks his thumbs into the elastic of his boxer briefs and slowly—sensually— frees his erect penis, eyes on Castiel as he does so. Castiel has that look in his eyes from earlier and he sits upright, grabbing Dean and pulling him onto the bed with him. The two scramble up the bed, a mess of limbs and hands and sloppy kisses. Dean is kissing his way down Castiel’s torso once they are both positioned on the bed, hell-bent on making this good for Cas. He kisses the man’s hip bone, skipping over the red, throbbing penis to mouth his way up Castiel’s inner thigh. He gently pushes Castiel’s legs apart, eyes mapping every inch of Castiel’s downtown area. His tongue fondles Castiel’s balls, provoking a moan that sounds somewhat like his name. Castiel’s hands fist the sheets as he bucks his hips desperately. Dean pulls away with a moan before moving his eager lips lower, wanting to try out all his tricks on Castiel. To give Castiel everything. He lifts Castiel’s legs and laps against Castiel’s hole and he feels the muscles tighten under his tongue.

          “Oh shit!” Castiel hisses, back arching.

          “Like that?” Dean purrs from between Castiel’s legs, palms spreading Castiel for better access. He rims Castiel’s clenching muscles with soft, kitten licks of his tongue. “Should I continue this? Or would you prefer… something else?” Dean asks sensually.

          “Ohhhhh.. ! Keep doing that, Dean,” Castiel’s voice breaks as Dean licks over his entrance again.

          “Whatever you want,” Dean says obediently, lowering his head again to poke his tongue past the tight, hot circle of muscles.  

          Dean slurps and licks and wrecks Castiel with his tongue. Castiel’s toes are curling and his fingers are tangled in Dean’s sandy brown hair as he moans and thrusts, cock aching to find friction of some kind. Dean feels Castiel remove one hand from his hair and looks up from worshipping the man with his mouth to see Castiel stroking his long-neglected member. Dean stops, replacing Castiel’s pumping hand with his own tender touch.

          “I’ll take care of that,” he offers.

          “Okay, but,” Castiel huffs, regaining some of his composure as he rests on his elbows, “you’re next.”

          “I’m good,” Dean says with a shake of his head, ignoring the painfully hard-on he is experiencing because _it’s always about the client._

          Cas frowns, eyeing Dean’s erect, flushed dick skeptically. “Dean, don’t be ridiculous. That has to be excruciating.”

          “It doesn’t matter,” Dean says dismissively, hands raking up and down Castiel’s sides.

          Castiel’s frown deepens for a fraction of a second before Castiel’s eyes fill with understanding then mischief and lust and— _damn, I’m turned on by this_. Castiel is suddenly rolling them over. Dean puffs out a breath, surprised to find himself on his back while Castiel is on his hands and knees over him. Castiel plants a searing kiss on Dean’s full lips, probably tasting himself on Dean’s tongue and Dean moans at the thought. Castiel pulls away and licks the shell of Dean’s ear before whispering, “I’m going to fuck you, Dean.”

          “Anything you want,” Dean shudders beneath Castiel.

          Castiel reaches for the bedside drawer, pulling it open with a tug. He digs around before coming back with a bottle of lube. Dean can almost feel his pupils dilating upon the sight of Castiel pouring the liquid over his fingers. Castiel moves to lift Dean’s legs and spread them and Dean obliges, bending his knees and pulling them to his chest with his hands, holding the bends of his knees steady. Cas traces the circle of Dean’s hole torturously before dipping his index finger in slowly to the first knuckle. “ _Cas_!” Dean gasps at the sensation, clenching around Castiel’s finger, his body begging Castiel for more.

          Slowly and carefully, Castiel pushes his finger in deeper, drawing out soft, breathy sounds from Dean. Dean clenches around the digit that is now fully buried in him. “Are you okay?” Castiel asks, slowly pumping the finger in and out.

          Dean freezes upon hearing the question. No one has ever asked whether or not he is okay. Clients usually don’t even prep him like this before hand. He swallows, palming the wrinkled blankets beneath him.

          “Dean?” Castiel asks tentatively, his movements stilling. “Are you alright? Is this… okay?”

          Dean sees Castiel’s eyes are big and concerned and scared that he’s hurting him. “Yeah, it’s good,” he chokes out with a nod.

          Castiel nods and begins again, pumping his forefinger in and out. In and out. Watching Dean the whole time. Dean groans deep and loud as a second finger is added and he adjusts to them. He rocks on the fingers as Castiel spreads him wide open, the other man murmuring words of adoration over him the entire time. “I’m going to put a third finger in,” Castiel says as he pulls his fingers out to apply more lube.

          “Any-anything… Do whatever you want,” Dean pants, raising his ass and pulling his legs closer to his chest for Castiel to obtain easier access.

          Castiel pauses to plant a soft kiss on the side of Dean’s knee before he slowly and carefully inserts three fingers. Dean bites his lower lip as his muscles contract and clench and stretch around them. Castiel holds still, shushing Dean and smoothing his free hand through Dean’s messy hair as he adjusts. “Can I move? Are you okay?” Castiel asks as Dean feels his body relaxing around Castiel’s fingers. Dean’s focusing on breathing because he’s so turned on and his heart aches and he feels so fucking wanted and it’s so different and weird and he doesn’t want to be the person who cries during sex so he blinks hard and nods. Castiel begins pumping his fingers in and out. In and out. And Dean is moving his hips in time, fucking himself on Castiel’s hand. Castiel curls his fingers inside him and the nimble fingers gliding along his slick insides feels like a waterfall of hot pleasure pouring on Dean and pooling in his lower abdomen. Dean’s body spasms and he shouts loudly, throwing his head back. That’s the prostate.

          “Is that it?” Castiel asks, angling his hand so that he is hitting the sensitive bundle of nerves upon every thrust of his hand.

          Dean is a mess, hands pawing at the blankets and pillows around him as he moans. “Cas… Cas!... _Castiel_! Oh, fuck! Oh, Cas! Yes, _yes… Yes!_ ” he exclaims as Castiel grabs his cock in his free hand, swiping at the heavily leaking precome and using it as lubricant to stroke Dean as he continues hitting his prostate with his dexterous fingers.

          “You’re gorgeous, Dean. You’re so beautiful,” Castiel says as he pleasures Dean.

          “Shut up,” Dean manages to grumble offhandedly between moans, turning his face away from Castiel.

          “So beautiful, Dean. You’re so perfect,” Castiel’s deep voice rumbles as he removes his hand from Dean’s cock and grabs Dean by his jaw and kisses him roughly. The kiss turns into just heavy breathing and open mouths pressing against each other messily, Castiel smearing his hand covered in Dean’s pre-come along the side of his face.

          “Cas… I’m… I’m getting close…” Dean admits, face completely flushed.

          Castiel nods, slowly pulling his hand out of the stretched hole. Dean holds back a whine at the loss. He looks at Castiel above him and Castiel leans down, kissing Dean chastely. Dean moves his hands to grab Castiel’s firm buttocks, massaging them gently. They slow things down to them pressing soft, calm kisses to mouths and foreheads and palms, gaining self-control. Dean breathes deeply, feeling himself backing away from the edge as Castiel’s hands smooth up and down his arms. He’s still whispering praises and the words sting because Dean knows he is not beautiful or perfect or worth Castiel’s time and he doesn’t want Castiel to lie to himself any longer, but Dean also knows that he is selfish and doesn’t want to lose this by breaking it off and letting Cas find someone who isn’t a slut and who is worth Castiel’s time. After a minute, Castiel stares into Dean’s eyes and murmurs, “Dean?”

          Dean’s dick twitches at the sound and he stares back at Castiel, his previous thoughts being pushed to their nesting space in his mind.

          “I’m going to make love to you now,” Castiel says and Dean bites his lower lip to stop himself from releasing an embarrassingly huge groan that rolls up from the depths of his stomach because no one says stuff like ‘ _make love_ ’ anymore.

          Castiel is about to squirt out more lube when Dean clutches his wrist. Castiel stops, looking at Dean with concern marring his gorgeous face. “You should probably use protection.” Dean quietly advises, hoping this isn’t ruining the mood for Cas, but he hasn’t been checked this past month and, although Crowley says Alistair is clean, he doesn’t want to risk it. Castiel takes it in stride and pulls a condom from the bedside drawer. Dean lays back on the bed as Cas rolls the condom on and squirts more lubricant into his hand, slicking himself up as Dean looks on rapturously. Cas lines himself up with Dean’s hole as Dean wraps his legs around Castiel’s torso. Heat and fire and pleasure dance over Dean’s entire body as Castiel slowly begins pushing into him. Dean whines and bites his lower lip, stretching to take on the size while Castiel murmurs softly above him, caressing Dean’s face as the Winchester adjusts. Once Castiel is halfway in, he stops and says, “You’re doing so good, Dean.”

          “You can… go ahead…” Dean says in between taking deep breaths through his nose, eyes squeezed shut as he steels himself.

          Castiel does not push in any further. Dean breathes in deep, feeling himself slowly adjusting and growing accustomed to the size. His eyes blink open and he gazes dazedly up at Castiel. Castiel’s lips quirk upwards in a tender smile before he brings Dean into a relaxed, scorching kiss. Castiel grabs Dean’s right hand with his left and laces their fingers together as he pushes all the way in to the hilt, a moan escaping Dean’s bruised lips only to get swallowed by Castiel hungrily. Dean sucks in a deep breath through his nose. Castiel wraps his right hand behind Dean’s neck, pressing their foreheads together. Eyes lock. Breaths dance across lips. Castiel is stroking the hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck with his fingers comfortingly, but Dean can feel the tremors running through the other man’s body as he is struggling not to move inside him. _He’s waiting for me. He’s making sure I am okay._ Dean waits a few seconds, processing what’s happening in his mind, and then nods his head once. Castiel nods in response and pulls out halfway before pushing in again.

          Castiel goes slowly at first and Dean is grateful that the man is allowing him time to adjust. He digs his fingers into Castiel’s shoulder blade and squeezes the hand that he’s still holding as Castiel creates a slow rhythm. In and out. In and out. Dean starts pushing in time, making Castiel go deeper and harder. Taking everything the other man has to give. Castiel groans at the tight, wet heat of Dean and Dean’s toes curl every time Castiel thrusts into him. Castiel twists his hips and snaps back into Dean and Dean feels high and overstimulated. Castiel’s eyes widen as he discovers that he’s hit the sweet spot. He pulls out, twists, and snaps, hitting the sensitive area again.

          “Cas! Oh, _god! Cas!_ Cas!” Dean shouts, tightening his grip as Castiel pounds into him, brushing against his prostate with each thrust.

          “Dean…” Castiel moans his name like a prayer as he takes Dean’s neglected member in his fist and begins pumping it off-beat.

          Dean shouts, toes curling as his heels dig into Castiel’s back and fingers moving from Castiel’s shoulder to wrap around the other man’s back, holding him close. Another thrust and Dean feels himself teetering at the edge. “Castiel!” he exclaims and as soon as the word escapes his lips, Dean feels Castiel’s body go rigid atop his and Castiel’s hand squeeze his own before he feels himself being filled with Castiel’s come filling the condom. Castiel moans through his orgasm and presses his scrunched up face to Dean’s neck. Dean expects Castiel to pull out and leave, but Castiel continues rocking into him.

          Castiel looks up at Dean, eyes full of that terrifying thing. That four letter thing that flutters around, but cannot be mentioned. That thing he doesn’t deserve. Dean’s breathing is heavy and uneven and he focuses on that and on the pooling heat in his stomach and the feeling of Castiel’s hand still holding his and how Castiel is glistening with a fine shimmer of sweat and the feeling of Castiel’s warm body against his. Inside him. Skin on skin. And Castiel smells like sex and cinnamon. Twist and snap. And with a shout and a flash of white before his eyes, Dean is toppling over the edge. Lips are flush with his and his cries disappear into Castiel as he climaxes. Soft and sweet and unrushed. Dean huffs a little untangling his legs from around Castiel. He feels the last of his come spurt out as Castiel pulls out slowly and carefully, and sinks into the bed as lethargy overtakes his body. Castiel twists around as he removes the condom, ties it off, and tosses it into a wastebasket. His weight is once again pressed atop Dean and it is comforting; Dean can feel the rise and fall of Cas’s chest against his come-slick stomach as Castiel’s ear presses to his bare chest and his fingers trace up and down Dean’s arm in strange patterns.

          “We need to clean up,” Castiel mumbles not sounding the least bit compelled to do so.

          “Let’s wait till morning,” Dean yawns, drowsily running his fingers through Castiel’s sex-ravaged hair. “We can shower together and I’ll show you a thing or two.”

          Castiel huffs a laugh into his chest and rolls off Dean to reach for his shirt on the floor. Retrieving it, he cleans the come from Dean’s chest and stomach before wiping himself off. He tosses the shirt once he’s satisfied and lies back beside Dean, nuzzling close. Dean feels his eyelids drooping closed, losing their fight to stay awake. Never fall asleep with your client.

          “Good night, Dean.” Castiel’s gruff voice replies, melting into the vast darkness of sleep.

           _Never fall asleep with your client. If you should fall asleep, when you wake up, you get out. Get out fast._

           _You are to see no other clients outside of myself._

          “G’night, Cas,” he murmurs, barely conscious.

****

          Dean wakes up, breath hitching and sitting up abruptly. He has Crowley and Alistair’s warnings and rules swirling in his brain, leftovers from the recurring nightmare. There is a moan of distaste from the lump of covers beside him and Castiel squints up at him from under his crazy hair before he rolls over to check the time. “Dean… ’s two in the morning. Go to sleep.” He slurs grumpily, rolling back over to curl around Dean. Dean stays seated for a beat. _Should I go..?_ Everything he’s learned screams ‘yes’ and that he’s getting to close to his client, but… _Castiel isn’t a client,_ he reminds himself.

          “Dean… Are you alright?” Castiel asks, seeming more coherent as he pushes himself up on his elbow.

          Dean scrubs a hand down his face before saying, “Sorry, Cas, it’s nothing.”

          Castiel frowns slightly, obviously not fooled. But Dean just shimmies back down to lie beside him. Castiel waits a beat, then wraps an arm around Dean’s torso before dozing off again.

****

       “Good morning,” Castiel’s voice rumbles into Dean’s neck as he slowly wakes up.

         Dean rolls over to face Castiel, the sheets twisting around his feet. “Hey,” he murmurs as he stretches with a wince at the pang of discomfort down his back.

        “I’m going to shower.” Castiel murmurs as he presses a light kiss to Dean’s mouth. He sits up and asks, “Would you like to join me?”

          Dean rubs at his eyes and smiles. “Right behind ya.”

       The shower is slightly cramped as Castiel steps in after Dean, but the warm water spraying over them makes it seem cozy and comfortable. Dean feels a hand on his shoulder and he turns to face Castiel expectantly only to see Castiel is reaching past him for the shampoo. Castiel crowds closer to Dean, leaning into the water to wet his sex-ravaged hair. Water droplets roll down his tanned skin and Dean’s eyes follow the rivulets running down Castiel’s naked body. Castiel begins to soap his hair, tilting his head back as he works the shampoo to a lather. Dean quietly lowers himself, the porcelain unforgiving on his knees. Castiel jumps slightly, a startled, “oh!” passing his lips as Dean takes the nurse’s half-hard cock in between his lips.

       Castiel’s moans join the sound of the water spray in the bathroom, echoing off the tile as Dean bobs up and down his erection. Castiel is completely aroused in seconds and Dean takes pride in that. Licking and sucking and moaning around Castiel’s length. A soapy hand finds Dean’s hair and fists it gently as Castiel’s hips stutter forward. Dean’s hands travel up Castiel’s thighs and stop once he is gripping his hips, pulling Castiel forward to take him deeper. Castiel groans his name and releases his load down Dean’s throat. Dean swallows before pulling off Castiel’s dick with an obscene slurp.

          Castiel is holding himself up with a hand on the wall of the shower Dean looks up at him, eyelids fluttering as the water sprays down on him. Castiel takes his right hand from Dean’s hair, moving it to grip his shoulder and pull him up off the shower floor.

          Castiel presses his forehead against Dean’s clavicle once he’s upright, leaning heavily on Dean as he regains his composure. Dean steps backwards, pulling Castiel with him until the other man is more under the spray. He gently turns Castiel away from him, running his fingers through the thick, dark brown hair as the water washes the shampoo down the drain. Castiel hums contently before turning back to face Dean.

          “Back up, it’s my turn to wash my hair.” Dean smiles, pouring shampoo into his open palm.

          Castiel shuffles backwards before reaching down and taking Dean’s length in his hand. Dean’s hips thrust into the grip and his fingers still in his hair. “Cas, you don’t have to deal with me.” Dean says apologetically, scrubbing at his scalp.

          Castiel’s grip tightens marginally and Dean looks up from rinsing out his hair moments before Castiel pushes him back until his spine is pressed against the cool, tile wall of the shower. He opens his mouth to question Castiel, but all that comes out is a moan as Castiel’s thumb rubs over the tip of his cock before he twists gently down it. Castiel presses his opposite forearm against Dean’s chest, holding him against the wall as he gives Dean the most ridiculously great hand-job he’s had in awhile.

          “You listen to me, Dean.” Castiel growls, pressing his face close to Dean’s.

          Dean bites back another moan at the deep, rumble of thunder that is Castiel’s voice.

          “This is a relationship. It goes both ways. I am not one of your clients.” His voice is growing darker and his warm breath hits Dean’s lips and chin. “I want to pleasure you as much as you want to pleasure me. In fact, I enjoy this. Do not presume that you have to give everything and that I shouldn’t reciprocate.”

          “Cas, I-I—“ Dean starts, but the words turn into a whine as Castiel’s hand leaves his cock.

          “Do you understand?” Castiel asks, eyes stormy.

          “Yeah. Yeah, Cas. I get it. Please, man… Please, just…”

          “Just what?” A dark eyebrow raises.

          “Cas. Don’t make me…. Will you just..?” Dean asks, hips thrusting forward, but finding no friction.

          “Ask me, Dean. You’re allowed to ask for things. You’re allowed to want things.”

          “Don’t turn this into some sort of therapy…”

          “Ask me.”

          “... _Touch me_.” Dean strangles out desperately, eyes closed as he says the words. “Please, Cas.”

          The hand returns to his cock while his forearm is removed from his chest. Castiel’s lips are soft against his throat, pressing feather soft kisses on top of the bruises. Dean fucks into Castiel’s hand, obscene sounds leaving his mouth as Castiel sucks hickeys along his collarbone. White light dances before his eyes and he comes with Castiel’s name on his lips. Cas kisses his forehead before moving Dean under the spray of the shower.

         “You did so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing Dean’s lips. “Turn around so I can clean your back.”

          After the shower, Castiel heads to work and Dean returns to his apartment. There’s a note from Sam saying that he’s hanging with his friend Kevin today. Dean goes to the fridge and pulls out leftovers to eat. He sits down to watch tv, enjoying one of the few free Saturdays he has had in a long-ass time. Crowley hadn’t been giving him as many other clients as per Alistair’s suggestion to “keep Dean all for himself.” Of course, it was possessive as shit, but Dean likes not having to deal with other people. He only has to really worry and deal with a client once or twice a week now and he’s getting paid more than usual. It’s the best of a shitty situation and he’ll fucking deal with it. His phone buzzes in his pocket after he washes off his dishes and he steels himself before checking it.

          “I get off early tonight since all my patients are stable. Would you like to join me to watch a movie?” It’s from Cas.

          Dean smiles as he taps out his reply: “Sure. Time?”

          “I’ll be home at around seven-forty. I’ll rent a movie on the way home.”

          Dean replies with, “OK, Cas” before heading back to rinsing off the dishes that have accumulated in the sink. He fills the washer before starting it and looks at his phone with a sigh. Almost six hours until Castiel will be home… _I guess I can clean up around here._ Dean begins with cleaning off the stove and countertops, scrubbing until they were spotless. His Swiffer and cleaning spray frenzy in the kitchen lasts an hour and he is sweeping up the floor when the door opens, signaling Sam’s return.

          “Dude, it’s spring cleaning time!” he calls to his brother once he comes into view.

          “It’s December, Dean.” Sam groans, toeing off his sneakers.

          “Yeah, well, this place is gross. Wanna vacuum or clean the bathrooms?”

          “Living room.” Sam quickly chooses, going to get the vacuum from his closet.

          The apartment slowly gets cleaned and, once Dean puts away his canister of Scrubbing Bubbles, it is seven o’clock. Sam had quit after vacuuming the place and cleaning his own room and is snoozing across his bed, sprawled like a starfish. Dean places a blanket over the teen before flipping off the light. He takes a quick shower to rid himself of the lemony smell of cleaning supplies before throwing together a quick dinner of spaghetti to leave for whenever Sam wakes up. His phone buzzes and he sees that Castiel has returned home. He leaves Sam a note before walking to his neighbor’s door.

          Castiel lets him in with a bashful sort of smile, asking, “Is it bad dating etiquette that I asked you over so soon after our second date?”

          Dean shrugs, replying, “Not that I know of. Why?”       

          “Gabriel said I am coming off as ‘clingy.’”

          Dean’s only response is to laugh and shake his head.

          The two head into the living room and Castiel asks, “Do you like Chinese or Japanese food?” before they place an order for some to be delivered. They sit on the couch together, placing slow, soft kisses on each other’s lips until the doorbell rings. Castiel stands, running a hand through Dean’s hair before going to the door and returning with two red boxes that smell of ginger and warm rice and orange tang. Castiel pops in the DVD before returning to Dean’s side on the couch. Dean scoops his sweet and sour chicken up with a fork while Castiel uses chopsticks to eat his orange chicken and noodles. The movie is some kind of mystery show, but fifteen minutes in, Dean is leaning over to press open-mouthed kisses to Castiel’s neck. Castiel tips his head to the side, baring his neck to Dean’s sticky lips. Dean travels up Castiel’s throat, sucking a light mark under his jaw and nipping at his earlobe. Castiel sets his half-finished box of food aside before turning to Dean. He takes Dean’s head in his hands and Dean immediately stills.

          _Do what I tell you to do._

          Castiel’s right hand slips back so he is lightly running his fingers through Dean’s short hairs at the nape of his neck while the other cups his cheek. Castiel leans forward, placing soft, chaste kisses along the socket below Dean’s left eye. Along the bruise that has progressed to an ugly mixture of yellow and green and purple. He watches as Castiel lowers his head and kisses along his neck. Placing soft, careful kisses over every finger-shaped bruise. Dean feels a lump of emotion in his throat as Castiel places one more chaste kiss to his lips before leaning back. He smiles at Dean, dropping his hands. Dean takes Castiel’s right hand in his left, squeezing it lightly. They lean against each other before turning back to the movie. The deep drone of the lead actor’s voice lulls Dean to sleep, the last thing he remembers is the soft sound of Castiel huffing a laugh at a joke in the film and the warm press of Castiel’s hand in his own.

          Dean cries out when the grip on his hand tightens to almost bone-crushing before he is slammed into the cold, hard wall, the stone scraping his cheek as his hand is twisted up behind his back. He tries to push away from the wall, but his hand is forced higher up his back. “Cas, please!” he half-shouts, half-sobs. He feels trapped and confined and it’s so cold.

          His heart is pounding in his chest because, try as he might, he can’t move. He can’t fight back. “ _Please_ , let me go!” he begs.

          The hand crunches down on his and Dean feels the man’s other hand reaching around to undo his pants’ button and zipper. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe in deeply. Tries to relax. Because this is going to hurt worse if he can’t relax. His pants are gone. He sees them lying a few feet away. But how did they get there so fast? Pain courses through him. It’s his first time and he’s not used to it. Something warm and sticky rolls down his face and between his legs and the metallic scent of blood is in the air.

          “Stop! Please! I-I can’t!” he yells when he is flipped around, an elbow digging into his shoulder to hold him against the red brick wall.

          Golden-brown eyes stare into his. They’re still dull. Still terrifying. “Shut the fuck up! You fucking tease! Don’t advertise the goods if you’re gonna scream loud enough to call the cops.” Dean’s shirtfront is fisted, he is yanked forwards, then slammed back against the wall. The back of his head hits it with a thud.

          “Please, stop!” he chokes out between sobs, the words familiar. “I-It hurts! Please!”

          Azazel throws him to the ground. Gravel digs into his forearm when he tries to catch himself. The warm, humid air clings to his sweat-soaked skin. He tries to reach for his pants, to cover his bloodied mess, but a shoe hits his ribcage and he curls in on himself with a sob.

          “You filthy whore!”

          “Dean! Dean! Wake up!” Castiel’s voice is tight with concern and Dean awakes with a start, sitting up from where he passed out in Castiel’s lap.

          The apartment around them is dark, lit only by the bright blue glow from the television screen, showing that the DVD had stopped long ago. He blinks hard around his sleep-induced confusion to look at Castiel. The man’s eyes are filled with worry and his brow is furrowed. Dean feels wetness on his own cheeks and slowly, he remembers. He had been having the nightmare again. He feels his cheeks burn as the memories are dredged up. “I-I… I’m sorry, uh, I..” he stammers, looking anywhere but at Castiel as he swipes at the tears on his cheeks.

          “Shhh… Shhh…It’s okay. Don’t apologize.” Castiel murmurs, reaching forward to run his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Are you alright?”

          “Yeah, yeah, it’s no big deal.” Dean grumbles, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

          Castiel’s hand drops to Dean’s shoulder and he lightly pulls him forward. Dean collapses into Castiel’s embrace, chin hooked over Cas’s shoulder. He breathes deeply as Castiel’s hands run up and down his back. “Do you want to talk about it?” Castiel’s voice breaks the silence after a few minutes. Dean nuzzles into Castiel’s neck, squeezing his eyes shut. _No. I don’t want to talk about it._ “You don’t have to… But I’m here if you do. I won’t judge you, Dean.” Castiel continues softly, one hand traveling up to stroke the soft hairs at the back of Dean’s neck.

          Dean pulls back only to lay down on his side, his head in his boyfriend’s lap, facing away from Cas. He fiddles with the fabric of Castiel’s sweatpants. Castiel’s hands find his hair again and Dean sighs before murmuring, “It was about Azazel.”

          “Mmmm, you said that name,” Castiel replies softly.

          Dean is silent, trying to figure out how to tell Castiel this. He remains quiet for a long while, but Cas never pries. He doesn’t ask who Azazel is. Cas only strokes his hair and shushes him soothingly when Dean chokes on the memories he is trying to put into words.

          “But… at first, the dream was about…” Dean doesn’t want to tell him about how his nightmare had started with Cas being his original assailant. He bites his lip before he quietly says, “At first, it was about you.”

          Castiel’s hands still in his hair momentarily.

          “It was… I was…” he chokes on his words. “When I started doing what I do, I didn’t work for Crowley. I just… you know, found people. I was about nineteen and hungry and on the street… The first one was Azazel. My first client. He, uh, it was…” Dean swallows, curling in on himself. “He used more force than necessary.”

          Castiel’s hands don’t stop playing with his hair. It’s comforting and soothing.

          “I dreamed of that… But it started out being you before it went back to how I usually remember it with him… It hurt and then he left me in the back of the alley.”

          Castiel is quiet and Dean scrubs at the tear that tracks down his face after recounting his nightmare. He forces a laugh out and his voice breaks when he utters, “I know, I’m real classy. A _real_ catch.”

          “Shhh, don’t talk like that,” Castiel’s voice is like a balm. “You are the best thing to ever happen to me.”

          Dean scoffs.

          “You got me out of my shell, Dean. If not for you, I may very well have adopted six cats and become a total recluse.” Castiel jokes softly. “In all seriousness, though, you are a good man. Yes, you had a rough past. That doesn’t make you a bad person.”

          Dean turns his cheek into the softness of Castiel’s pants, hiding away from the praise he doesn’t deserve.

          “Look at me, Dean,”

          Dean closes his eyes and doesn’t move.

          “Please, Dean,”

          Dean slowly rolls onto his back, looking up at Castiel. The man’s blue eyes are full of something… Something no one has given him before. A look conveying a feeling so heavy and meaningful that it makes Dean’s breathing hitch and his stomach flip. He wants to hide again, run from it. But Castiel takes one of his hands, anchoring him.

          “You are good, Dean. You deserve so much better. And I will spend my whole life trying to prove this to you.” Castiel breathes the words and Dean knows it’s a promise and he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t look away.

          And Dean is struck with how pure Castiel is. How amazingly open and caring he is. He drinks it in, every part of this moment he isn’t worthy of. Even the heartbreak and the pain and the guilt he feels because, for some reason, Castiel is here with him. He knows what he does and he’s still here. And Dean stares into Castiel’s eyes and the world doesn’t seem so crushingly cold as usual.

   ****

          Dean’s stomach is flipping. Alistair had returned from his trip and he has been on edge for days awaiting the oncoming text. He feels like he is in hell. He dreads every appointment Alistair sets up. They are getting worse and more frequent. And it’s not even a slow progression. It’s just one round of torture to another. He stares at his phone on the coffee table from where he’s lying. His head is in Castiel’s lap and they’re watching some documentary about bees at Castiel’s place, but Dean hasn’t been able to focus. Because it’s Thursday and Alistair always seems to text him on Thursdays. Castiel is absent-mindedly running his fingers through Dean’s hair and it feels so nice. Dean focuses on that, letting it lull him into a state of half-sleep bliss. He nuzzles into Castiel’s lap, turning so that he’s lying on his back and looking up at the other man. Castiel looks away from the television to Dean and gives him a small smile. He looks somewhat distracted and Dean wonders if Cas is thinking about Alistair, too.

          The cell phone chimes loudly on the coffee table. Dean flinches at the sound and Castiel’s hand stills it’s soothing caresses. Dean sits up slowly, watching Castiel carefully. Because he has never been around when Dean gets called upon. Well, there was the time with the pizza, but Cas didn’t know then… Castiel’s eyes are closed as he takes a deep breath. Dean reaches for his phone when Castiel’s hand suddenly touches his wrist, stopping the movement. Dean looks at Castiel from under raised eyebrows.

          “Cas..?” he breathes out, hearing his voice wave with worry.

          Castiel looks at Dean, seeming to drink him in. He lifts his hand up and holds Dean’s face, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb lightly. “Be careful,” he whispers and Dean looks away because Castiel’s eyes are so pained and it’s his fault.

          He nods his head instead of responding. He finally reaches for the phone and unlocks it with a shaky breath. Same address. Same message. Except in this text, Alistair adds, “Don’t make me wait.” Dean furrows his brow. Castiel notices his pause and asks, “What is it?”

          “Nothing,” he says, pausing before he elaborates because he’s trying to work on this whole not lying thing, “It’s just… He told me to get there fast. I don’t know… It’s just different.”

          Castiel nods, eyes locked on the phone screen. He watches Dean rise to his feet, the look in his blue eyes like rain on the ocean. Dean looks away. He feels like shit. Castiel stands and they walk to the door of the apartment before Castiel swoops Dean up by his leather jacket’s lapels in a tender kiss. Dean grasps at Castiel’s shirt in a needy way as the man presses their lips together in a soft and gentle caress. When Castiel pulls back, he catches Dean’s gaze and whispers, “Promise me you won’t get hurt?”

          And Dean breaks on the inside as he sees the storm inside Castiel’s eyes is not raging feelings of possession or greed. No, he’s worried about Dean. Dean drops his hands to his sides and says, “Cas, I can’t…”

          Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and fists the jacket tighter. “ _Please_ , Dean…” he begs quietly. “Just promise me you’ll be okay this time.”

          Dean takes hold of Castiel’s wrists and pulls them from his jacket. “I’ll be okay. I promise.”

          Dean is tied face-down, spread-eagle to one of Alistair’s bondage-bed things. He feels his chest rising and falling heavily, but tries to mask his fear. Alistair reaches around, forcing a ball gag between Dean’s lips and tying it behind his head. “Because you can’t keep quiet.” Alistair snarls into his ear, spittle landing on Dean’s cheek. Dean shifts uneasily on the bed, glad that he prepped himself beforehand in anticipation of Alistair’s lack of prep. But Alistair does not thrust into Dean. He is tracing Dean’s back with his fingertip, going over the smooth skin and the almost-completely-healed scabs from the whip. The fingertip is replaced with the pointed, cool tip of something and Dean freezes in terror.

“Did I ever tell you my father loved hunting?” Alistair muses in a cold, detached way. “He took me out when I was young and we hunted all kinds of animals.”

The point digs into Dean’s back slightly and he grunts in pain as it is dragged down his back lazily.

“Do you know what my favorite part was?” Alistair asks, lifting the object from Dean. A long pause before his empty voice echoes off the walls. “I liked skinning the animals. Gutting them.”

Dean stifles a gasp.

“In fact, this is a knife similar to what I used back then.” Alistair says casually. As though he is talking about the weather. “Now, stay still.”

And then the pointed blade is pressed into Dean’s shoulder, carving a curly sort of cut down Dean’s side. And Dean tries to keep quiet, but Alistair keeps slicing his back. Nothing too deep. But the cuts hurt. They drag across the old scabs, ripping them open again. And Dean is trying to say ‘stop’, but the gag makes his noises indecipherable. He is close to tears when he hears the knife being set aside. Dean lets out a shaky breath, a half sob.

“You look so pretty like this.” Alistair says, voice lilting at odd syllables. Dean shudders as he feels fingers lightly running over Dean’s back, smearing the small amounts of blood that have begun pushing out from the small cuts. “Too bad you’re so loud and disobedient.”

Dean feels his heart skip a beat as the words wrap around his throat in a constricting way.

“I’m going to have to drag out this punishment.”

Imagine the pain of stepping on glass and cutting the skin open and then stepping into the ocean. Salt on a wound. Dean cries out against the ball gag as the grainy mixture is rubbed against his cuts. Pressed deep into him by the body atop his. Leather is holding down his wrists and ankles. Snakes coiled around him. Ensnaring him. Neverending. _How long has this been going on?_ He bites down on the gag. _Be quiet. Be quiet. Be quiet. Be good. Be obedient. Don’t make a sound._ He tells himself in a mantra, praying it will end the session quickly. Minutes and lifetimes and seconds fly by and Alistair ruts against him, rubbing salt deeper into his back. Dean’s world is a blur before he is tossed out again. Standing in the hall, shirt sticking to his blood-and-salt-covered back.

And he hurts.

He eases himself down into the seat of his car after an excruciating ride down an elevator. He can feel the blood seeping through his shirt as he yanks his door shut. He lifts his hands to place them on the wheel and they’re shaking. His whole body is shaking. He screams loudly in his car and tears push at the edges of his eyes like a dam reaching its spillway. It hurts to lean back against the seat and his wrists are sore and his ankles are sore. He sobs loudly into the confines of his car. Empty. He feels so empty. Like a coke bottle tossed aside after the buyer has drained it of its contents. He’s sobbing, curling around himself. He hisses when his curled back makes contact with the back on the seat. And his emotions feel out of control and he feels like he’s spiraling into darkness and he’s scared. _I need help, but I can’t call Cas… I promised him I’d be alright._ Dean wipes his tears with the back of his hand. _I can’t go to the hospital or they’ll file an assault and I’ll have to lie to the police and everyone._ He sucks in deep breaths, trying to gain control of himself. Gasping for air. But he’s being dragged under. _Sit up._ He pushes himself to a seat, grinding his teeth against the pain. _Start the car. Drive._

He pulls up to the apartments after an hour. It’s one in the morning. He slumps forward in his seat, resting his head against the wheel as his back screams. He thinks back to his childhood when he tried riding his bike down a steep hill and fell and it tore his forearm up. His back feels torn up much like that. But the salt is lingering still and it burns with every movement. He hisses through his teeth and pushes himself up the stairs. His emotions are still spiraling and he gets to Castiel’s door. He knocks three times and waits. _Don’t be asleep. Don’t be at work._ The door opens and Dean breaks down.

 


	3. Chapter 3

***

          Dean wakes up slowly to see Castiel walking into his bedroom, pulling off his scrub top. It’s three pm; he’s slept all day. Dean shifts and Castiel turns to look at Dean, face torn between guilty and exhausted. “Dean, I can’t watch you do this anymore.” He says as Dean sits up in bed.

          Dean freezes, covers pooling around his waist. “What d’you mean?” he asks cautiously, feeling his walls slowly rising in defense.

          “I…” Castiel stops and takes a breath before pushing on, “I have tried to be accepting of your job. I have tried not to let it affect me, but I cannot continue neglecting my feelings. I can’t handle knowing you’re out there selling your body to someone else. Not when you come back to me and I have to pretend it doesn’t bother me that _someone else_ is… Especially not when your client is mistreating you.”

          “He’s not treating me that bad. I’ve been through worse.” Dean lies quietly, unsure of what to say in regard to Castiel’s feelings.

          “ _Stop_ defending these people who hurt you!” Castiel exclaims. “You can’t take this all as being your own fault! It’s not! Stop trying to handle everything on your own!”

          “I don’t.”

          “You do! _You_ drive _yourself_ home. Every time. After every appointment of yours. And, in my professional opinion, I don’t know how you make it back here. You should not be driving after taking that much abuse from Alistair. From any of your clients. You should call me! But you _never_ do.”

          “It’s not that bad, Cas. Honestly--”

          “Don’t lie to me.” Castiel says simply.

          “I’m not lying. I’m fine. My back is fine. They’re not even deep cuts.” Dean says with agitation as he pushes himself to his feet.

          “Dean. I see you _every time_! I see what he does to you! Last night? You were a wreck!” Castiel shouts, rising to his feet. “Look at yourself! And I take care of you every damn time, but… I can’t sit idly by any longer! I can’t watch you do this!”

          “Well, I’m sorry! You’re the one who decided to date a fucking whore!” Dean bellows, tears springing into his eyes as he raises his scarred and bruised arms. “I can’t just quit! I can’t afford shit, Cas! I’m not smart enough to get another job! This is all I’m good at!”

          “You can’t possibly believe that’s true.” Castiel says, his voice soft like the faraway thunder outside.

          “Oh, I believe it because it _is_ true.” Dean huffs bitingly as he yanks his jeans up off the floor and pulls them on roughly.

          “What can I do to help you, Dean? Let me help you.” he’s so earnest it’s almost as if Dean isn’t the heap of trash that he is.

          “You can’t,” Dean mutters quietly, rubbing his forearm in a distracted way.

          “There must be something I can—“

          “ _Don’t you get it?!_ ” Dean explodes; the adrenaline and emotion of the past twenty-four hours catches up to him again and tears escape his eyes and trickle down his cheeks. “You can’t help me! Alistair—he owns me! _He owns me_!”

          Castiel reels backwards from Dean’s shouts, a startled look crossing his beautiful face. “Dean…” he whispers, taking a step forward and extending a hand.

          “Don’t you fucking pity me.” Dean snarls, recoiling.

          Castiel drops his hand and just stares at him, looking both pained and distressed and Dean wants to do nothing more than disappear. _Why do I ruin everything? I had one chance at happiness; I had Castiel and now I’ve lost one of the only good things in my life._ He licks his split lip and shakes his head. A _nd I was stupid enough to think we could continue this…_ He chastises himself as he glowers at the carpet beneath his feet through a sheen of unshed tears.

          “You’re wrong.” Castiel’s voice is somber and demands attention even though he is speaking quietly.

          “Oh, yeah?” Dean scoffs. “About what?”

          “Alistair..?” Castiel’s voice turns bitter as he spits the name from his lips. “He _does not_ own you.”

          “You don’t get it, man,” Dean sighs with frustration. _How could Cas understand? He is perfect. He has money and his family loves him and he’s not a massive failure. He’s the complete opposite._ Dean stops rubbing his arm as his pain and frustration bubbles up until his emotions are spilling over. He pokes his own chest with his forefinger, staring into Castiel’s stormy blue eyes as he shouts, “This is who I am, Cas! I’m just something people buy to have a good time! I’m not worth your time, okay?! You don’t need to help me out of this because I don’t need out! I’m not getting out. D’you know how much he’s paying for me?!”

          “Dean, you are not an item for sale.” Castiel rumbles defensively.

          Dean rolls his eyes, dropping his gaze.

          “Dammit, Dean!” Castiel snaps like a lightning strike, causing Dean’s eyes to flit up to catch Castiel’s gaze for a second, but it’s too pure. Dean looks away again, feeling like the lowest form of scum in the presence of an angel.

          “I can see who you are, Dean.” Castiel says, voice calmer now.

          Dean raises a hand, palm forwards to stop Castiel from starting the I-Can-Help-You-Out-Of-This-Because-You’re-A-Great-Person lie he’s probably preparing. “You can see who I am?” he huffs rhetorically, dropping his hand. A weak sound in between a laugh and a sob escapes his lips before he wearily says, “Well in that case, you should be able to see that I am… ninety percent crap.”

          Dean barely registers the look of complete anguish on his boyfriend’s-- _ex-boyfriend now, probably_ \-- face before he turns on his heel and stalks out of the apartment. On the nine-foot walk from his neighbor’s door to his own, his phone chimes out that he got a text. Of course it’s from Crowley. Of course he has an appointment in two hours with someone. He stalks into his apartment, slamming the door behind him before he notices Sam sitting on the kitchen counter, face illuminated by the light from his laptop.

          “You can get out, Dean.” The boy’s voice is gentle.

          “What?”

          “The walls of this apartment aren’t that thick. And you’re kinda loud.” Sam says with a shrug. “But you can get out.”

          “Sam, I signed a contract. I can’t—“

          “A void contract.” Sam interrupts.

          “What is that?”

          “If you sign a contract where you agree to fulfill an illegal act, it’s void. It can’t be enforced. Your boss can’t enforce it if you quit. If you walk away, there’s really no stopping you.” Sam explains, looking proud of himself.

          Dean feels something stirring in his chest. Something that feels like hope. “You’re a genius.” He says, a smile pulling on his face as he picks up his car keys.

          “Not a genius, a future lawyer.”

          Dean laughs lightly, pulling the apartment door open.

          “Where are you going?”

          “To tell my boss that I quit.” Dean beams, closing the door behind himself.

****

          “You _what?!_ ” Crowley barks, slamming his hands on his cheap desk.

          “I quit.” Dean states, jaw set. He’s standing in the office, having not bothered to sit down. He plans on keeping this short. Sweet. To the point.

          “Well, I suppose I can’t stop you, now can I?” Crowley huffs in his thick accent.

          Dean shrugs, watching as Crowley turns his chair and stands, back to Dean as he opens one drawer of the file cabinet and extracts a bottle of whiskey. The stout man pulls out two glasses and then asks, “Can we toast you off? Only seems fitting for my best and brightest slut.”

          “Sure,” Dean agrees. He isn’t one to turn down a free drink and that whiskey is an expensive brand.

          “Please, sit.” Crowley says, turning back to the drinks.

          “I’ll stand.” Short and sweet. Besides, his back is still aching despite his favorite nurse’s ministrations.

          “Suit yourself.” Crowley is swirling the liquid in both glasses when he turns back to Dean, extending his right hand to offer Dean the glass.

          Dean takes the glass, tipping it to Crowley in the form of a salute before tossing it back.

          “Well, thank you for your years of service, you will be missed, yada, yada,” Crowley huffs, taking a slow sip of his own amber drink. “Go. Clean out your locker.”

          Dean nods and exits the office. He walks down the stained carpets of the hallway and into the small locker room. A woman named Pam is lacing up knee-high boots, but Dean ignores her and opens his locker, grabbing out his small bag of possessions. He tosses the bag over his shoulder and walks out into the cold, December air. He tosses the bag into his passenger seat and climbs into the car, closing his door behind him before the wave of relief floods his system. He’s free. _I’m free. I’m free. I’m_ free. His brain chants as he sits in the car for a minute, reveling in the feeling. He starts up his car and pulls out of the gravel lot and onto the back roads. After driving five minutes, Dean’s eyesight gets blurred and he blinks hard, trying to rid his eyes of their impairment. He’s swerving. One minute, he’s in the lines, the next, he’s straddling the middle of the road. And is someone following him? It’s so dark, Dean can’t tell, but every now and then, a street light reflects off something behind him. _Oh God, I can’t drive._ He pulls off to the shoulder under an overpass. He puts the car in park and it rumbles quietly in the night. _What’s going on? What’s going on?_

          His door is jerked open and his shirt is grabbed, someone is hauling him from the vehicle and it’s dizzying. Dean sways on his feet, looking at the two, looming figures before him. He blearily raises his fists, but a fist pounds into his skull so hard, he staggers back a foot. He hears the sound of a car door shutting as a fist hits him in the shoulder. He swipes at one of the shadow men, barely grazing an arm before one man grabs a fistful of Dean’s hair, yanking his head down and bringing a knee up to meet Dean’s face. Dean’s split lip begins bleeding again.

          “You think you can just quit?” the familiar leer comes from behind the two goons.

           _Crowley_ , Dean’s brain barely registers before the fist in his hair tightens and forces him down onto his hands and knees. Pebbles dig into his palms and kneecaps through his jeans. He’s dizzy again and wonders if he’ll throw up. “Let go of me!” He shouts, but the hand in his hair forces his face down into the dirt. Pebbles scrape Dean’s cheek.

          “After all I’ve done for you! You think you can walk out on me?” Crowley spits and the toe of someone’s shoe connects with Dean’s gut.

          No air. He gasps like he’s drowning. “Stoppit!” Dean growls, yanking his head free and sitting back on his knees, but the motion leaves him disoriented. “What’d you do to me?” he slurs, swaying to his feet. “Did’ja fucking roofie me?!”

          “Restrain him, please,” Crowley says in a bored sort of way and the two large men come at Dean from either side. Dean swings and kicks and thrashes, but cannot hold them off. Can’t get free. Fists collide with his face and neck and chest and his arms are ensnared in their grasps. One of them is wearing a brass ring that cuts into him with every blow.

          Dean is sagging, chest rising and falling quickly from overexertion and anger and fear. Blood drips from his nose like a faucet, colliding with the blood from his split lip. The wounds on his back ache. He looks up at Crowley through his blackened eyes. Crowley strolls up within a foot of Dean’s face, hands clasped behind his back casually. A fist collides with Dean’s stomach. Dean curls in on himself, sputtering.

          “Get him back up.” Crowley says and the men force Dean upright again only for another blow to send him back into the same position.

          “’S a void contract… I don’t have to… do this anymore,” Dean chokes out, words blurring together.

          Crowley barks out a laugh. “Darling, this is it for you. Alistair is the best thing that will ever happen to scum like you,” he hisses. “You’re just a hole to fill. A play thing. Don’t go getting any ideas based on the justice system because you can easily be locked away for _what you are_ as well.”

          “Bite me,” Dean gargles through his mouthful of blood. He must have bit his tongue somewhere in the fight. Not a fight. A beating.

          “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Crowley sneers. “You can’t quit, Dean. There is no way out. Consider this a warning. Try to quit again and it will be ten times worse.” The men release Dean and he sways before falling to his knees.

          “I don’t give a shit if you get your goons to beat me again!” Dean shouts at Crowley’s retreating form. The Scotsman stops, letting the two henchmen get into the car before turning and walking back to Dean.

          “I’m not going to beat you up again, Dean.”

          “So, you’ll kill me? Ha, big whoop.”

          “No, not that either. But your little brother… Sam, is it? He’ll get it.”

          Dean gapes in shock, wincing as Crowley grabs him by the hair.

          “And that sweet piece of ass you’ve got on the side? Cas- _tee_ -ell? He’ll get a dose of this, too.” Crowley threatens, darkly before thrusting Dean to the side.

          Dean falls into the gravel road, left arm harshly scraping through the loose pebbles. “How d’you…?”

          “I keep tabs on my property, Dean.” Crowley says, looking down at Dean for a moment before turning on his heel and walking back to the car, shouting, “Alistair will be seeing you at his next appointment or I’ll carry out my threats. Don’t make me be the bad guy.”

          The car pulls away and Dean feels a wave of nausea sweep over him and he can’t tell if it’s from the drugs or the terror pulsing through his veins. He’s on his hands and knees again, vomiting up bits of his dinner. _Get to your car. Get to your car._ Dean tries to stand, but he’s dizzy and can feel the blackness pulling at the edges of his mind. He won’t last much longer. He crawls a foot before his arms grow heavy. _Help me._

          Dean fumbles to get his phone out and dials a number, on the edge of consciousness.

          “Hello?” Castiel’s gruff voice sounds.

          “Cas…” Dean coughs.

          “Dean? Are you alright?”

          “North Stemmons Freeway…”

          “Dean, what are you talking about?”

          “When you get off I-35… Under the overpass…”

          “What? Dean, slow down--”

          Dean surges on because he’s almost gone. He slurs out, “Firefly Inn, Cas… Please,” before his world smashes to black.

****

          He feels the ground beneath him pull to a stop. He feels himself slide forwards slightly from where he is draped across something cool and made of leather. _Where am I_? He blinks, but everything is fuzzy. “Can you sit up?” a familiar voice asks and Dean barely acknowledges the sound with the scrunching of his nose. He hears keys jangling and a car door shutting. He looks around and it’s dizzying. _Am I in a car?_ Windows blur into a kaleidoscope. He closes his eyes with a moan, coughing and feeling pressure on his ribcage. He’s falling down a rabbit hole and hitting every jagged edge on the way down. “Dean, come here,” a gentle voice coaxes him back from the edge. Dean tries to focus on the man’s face, but it feels like trying to focus on the road after driving for eighteen hours straight and he gets dizzy and squeezes his eyes closed.

          “I’m sorry,” he slurs and he realizes he’s crying and he doesn’t know when he started crying.

          Arms lift him from the car bridal style and he burrows his face into the juncture between the arm and the chest. The man grunts a little as he carries Dean a ways. “Dean, you’re gonna have to help me, okay? You’re gonna have to stand up and walk a little. Can you do that?” the voice asks.

          Dean nods before his world is flipped and rotated from horizontal to vertical. _Fuckfuckfuck._ He doubles over, dry-heaving. His arm is draped around a pair of shoulders and one of the man’s arm wraps around Dean’s waist while the other props him up into a standing position. Dean can’t move his legs correctly and he wants to know where he is.

          “ _Dean_?” Sam’s voice enters his ears and he looks through the haze and he sees his brother standing in the doorway of their apartment in his pajamas. “Cas?! Is he okay?!

     _Castiel. I’m with Castiel._

          “Sam, go back to bed. I’ll take care of your brother.” It’s Castiel’s voice.

          “No! He’s my brother! Look at him! Should we take him to the hospital?”

          Dean tries to console his brother, but only ends up slurring something. The darkness is nipping at his heels, crawling up his body until it’s invading the edges of his vision. He looks up at Castiel, muttering, “Roofies.” He falls into wonderland.

          Dean wakes up with a pounding headache and soreness all over. He breathes in deep and it smells sterile and like cleaning supplies; he catches a wiff of cinnamon and sun-soaked skin.  Castiel is here. The sheets are crisp under his fingertips and the pillow rustles quietly as he begins to stir. He opens his eyes, blinking the sleep away to confirm his assumptions. Sunlight is trying to squeeze in around the drawn, blinds of the hospital room and a figure is slouched in one of two hideously-patterned chairs at his bedside, bent over the bright screen of a cell phone. He coughs, groaning at the ache it causes in his ribs and notices a movement by his side.

          “Dean?” Sam whispers, stuffing his phone into his coat pocket.

          “Heya, Sammy,” Dean’s voice is thick from sleep. “What’re we doin’ here?”

          Sam’s frown is visible in the dim lights and he says, “You were pretty beat up last night… Cas said we needed to get you here just in case the drugs had any side-effects or if you had any internal damage.”

         “What happened?” Dean asks, wrapping an arm around his aching chest with a grimace as he pushes himself to lean back against the headboard.

         “He said you might not remember. Oh, shoot! I was supposed to get him when you woke up.” Sam blurts out, scurrying towards the door. “Wait right here!”      

         “Not going anywhere soon,” Dean mumbles to his brother’s retreating form.

           He looks himself over, lifting the covers and seeing he is wearing just his boxer briefs under a pale blue hospital gown. He looks at his arms and the ever-present bruises around his wrists are there, but a spattering of discoloration all up the rest of his arms is different. Fist shaped bruises blossom on his biceps, some with little cuts. His palms and elbows are scraped as if he fell off a bike in the street and he feels as though one side of his face may be a little scraped, too. His nose hurts and his lips feel swollen and chapped. His tongue darts out of his mouth and he hisses as it runs over a gash in the lower lip. _What happened?_

           Seconds later, Castiel pushes the door open and is by Dean’s side. Dean looks up and feels like shit because Cas looks awful even in the dimly lit room. His blue eyes are puffy and red and have dark circles forming beneath them and his hair is more dishevelled than usual. Pink lips smile softly down at him and he reaches out to push Dean’s hair from his forehead, murmuring, “Hello, Dean.”

           “Heya, Cas,” Dean croaks, leaning into the touch as the fingertips move from his hair to cup the side of his face.

            “Sam says you don’t remember what happened to you,” Castiel says, keeping his voice low. His hand is removed from Dean’s face as he sits on the edge of the bed, drawing one knee up so he can face Dean head-on.

           Dean nods as he rubs his eyes with his fingers. He looks down at his lightly bandaged palms and mutters, “Yeah, I kind of know what happened… It’s just… bits and pieces.”

           “That’s okay,” Castiel places his hand on Dean’s knee, grounding him before he spirals off. “What’s the last thing you remember? We can start there if you would like?”

           “Alright,” Dean agrees, pressing his lips together. “We got in a fight and I, uh, left.”

           Castiel nods and squeezes Dean’s knee through the sheets lightly.

           “I went back to my place and… Talked to Sam? I can’t remember…. It’s fuzzy.”

          “You did talk to Sam. You talked about quitting your job.” Castiel says and his voice breaks. Dean looks at Castiel and instead of returning his gaze, Castiel takes Dean’s scraped hand and brings it to his lips.

          Dean feels the warmth of a shaky huff of breath on his knuckles before Castiel brushes his lips over the top of them. His hand is opened up and Castiel presses feather light kisses all along the scraped flesh of his palm. Dean watches, rifling through his unorganized memories and asking, “I went to the Inn, didn’t I?”

          “Yes, you did.” Castiel murmurs, looking up from his ministrations. He lowers Dean’s hand, holding it in both his hands and shuffles a couple inches up the bed.

          Dean closes his eyes and tips his head back against the pillow, frowning as he wracks his brain. He knows he remembers, the memories are just misplaced. Hidden. He remembers kaleidoscope car windows and the earth spinning beneath his feet. And a cup of scotch. “He drugged me.”

          Castiel’s body tenses up and Dean opens his eyes and sees rage and guilt swirling like tumultuous seas in Castiel’s eyes. He pushes himself to a seat, his head giving a throb of protest as he does so. He wraps his scraped hands around Castiel’s and utters his boyfriend’s name.

          Castiel puffs out a breath and shakes his head, tangling their fingers together. “I caused this, Dean. I was upset and pushed you into quitting.” he pauses before breathing out, “I could have lost you.”

          “I’m not that easy to get rid of. I’m scrappy.” Dean says with a half smile, trying to lighten the mood. “I can’t be taken out by a couple of goons.” And with that sentence, his memory washes back like a tidal wave crashing over his head.   _“’S a void contract… I don’t have to… do this anymore,”_ He leans forward, groaning at the pulsing of his head as the memories overpower him. _“You’re just a hole to fill. A play thing.”_ Castiel’s hands tighten and his voice is far away, asking him if he’s alright. Calling his name. He latches onto Castiel’s voice, squeezing the man’s hands and dragging himself up out of the memories.

         “Dean..? Are you alright? Hey, hey, hey,” Castiel soothes, gathering Dean up into a hug and smoothing his hands over his shoulders, careful to avoid his wrapped up back. Dean realizes he’s shaking. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

         Dean shakes his head, pushing away slightly. “Crowley drugged me. And I had to pull over… And they followed me.”

         “Who followed you?” Castiel asks, leaning back to look at his boyfriend.

          Castiel catches Dean’s eye and he furrows his brow, trying to remember anything about his assailants, but they are like shadows. Ghouls that were more darkness than men. “I don’t… know.” Dean struggles, pressing against his forehead with his fist. “There was Crowley and two others, but… I can’t…”

         A hand cards through his hair and he looks up into Castiel’s eyes again. “It’s okay. It’s alright, sweetheart,” Castiel cooes.

         “I know, it’s just frustrating.” Dean groans, leaning back against the wall behind his cot again. “They beat me up… I couldn’t fight back cuz of the drugs. I… I think one of them was wearing a ring.”

         Castiel’s voice is tight as he confirms, “There are cuts on you that show you were hit with something sharp. It was most likely that ring.”

        _“So, you’ll kill me? Ha, big whoop.”_

 _“No, not that either. But your little brother… Sam, is it? He’ll get it… And that sweet piece of ass you’ve got on the side? Cas-_ tee _-ell? He’ll get a dose of this, too.”_

         “Oh, no.” Dean startles, freezing like a deer as the warning hits him. “Where’s Sam?”

         “He’s fine, he’s in the cafeteria getting breakfast. Dean, what’s wrong?” Castiel asks, head tilting to the side.

         “Crowley said…” Dean pauses, wondering if he should tell Castiel. What if he hates me for dragging him into this? “He threatened Sam. And… And you. He said if I quit… God, Cas, I’m sorry. I don’t know how they knew. I should be the one they come after, not you two…”

         Castiel sits silently, and Dean can feel the man’s anger like bottled lightning.  

         “I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean utters, figuring that Castiel’s anger is aimed at him.

        Castiel looks him in the eye, able to read him like a book. “I am not upset with you. I am upset that someone did this to you. I am upset with myself for pushing you into a dangerous situation.”

          “Cas, hey, that was my fault. I went in and didn’t expect this. Don’t worry about me, you should--”

         “You could have _died_ , Dean!” Castiel cries out, raising his voice for the first time since Dean awoke. There is a wild storm in his eyes. “God, Dean, if I hadn’t gotten to you… If they... I could have lost you.”

         “Cas, don’t worry about me. Seriously.” Dean huffs. His mind is filled with guilt. Shame. Awful self-loathing. He mutters, “You should just get out while you can.”

         “What are you saying?”

         “You aren’t safe with me. And you can’t live like this. It’s shit for me to expect you to be okay with what I am.”

         “That is not who you are, Dean.” Castiel growls.

         Dean snorts. “I can’t put you in danger like that… I can’t quit or they’ll… You have to get away from me. I’m poison.”

         “You are _not_ poison, Dean Winchester.” Castiel whispers defensively. “And I am not leaving you because of some threat. I can take care of myself.”

         “But--”

         “No. I can take care of myself, Dean. I won’t let them hurt you. Not again. You can quit.” Castiel says, sounding one-hundred percent sure of himself.

         “Cas, just leave me.”

         “Don’t surrender to them. I would give everything for you and this is what you give to me?” Castiel frowns.

         “I just…” Dean pauses, unsure of how to convey how he feels. “I can’t see you looking like I do now. I can’t see them hurt you.”

         “You can’t always save everyone,” Castiel sighs, tension leaving his body. “I’m not leaving you now. Or ever. You can’t keep this up… You could have died.”

         “But I didn’t. And do you know why?” Dean asks, eyebrow raised.

         “Why?”                 

         “Because I have a hot nurse to take care of me,” he answers, aiming a small grin at Castiel before yawning enormously.

         Castiel’s lips tilt up slightly and he places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, pressing him back gently. “Lie down, get some rest.”

         Dean does as he’s told, scooting down the bed and laying back into the pillow. Castiel leans over and plants a kiss on Dean’s forehead. He begins to stand when Dean catches him by the wrist. Castiel looks down in confusion and Dean moves his hand downward to hold Castiel’s hand. “Stay with me?” he asks timorously, watching their fingers interlace. “You look beat, man. You need to sleep.”

         “Dean…” Castiel tries to protest weakly, but Dean interrupts saying, “You gotta take care of yourself, too. C’mon.”

         Castiel carefully lays back on the small hospital cot and wraps himself around Dean, tangling their legs together. Dean curls up into Castiel, the warmth between them loosening the tension in his body. Castiel’s arm is carefully draped over him, pulling them closer until Dean feels Castiel’s hot breath in his hair. His eyelids grow heavy and another yawn breaks through his split lips. A kiss is placed at the base of his neck as the feeling of safety and comfort and something else warming him to the bone. _I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve Cas._

         “Dean, you’re gonna have to talk to the police. They need a statement since you were attacked.” Castiel says carefully.

         “Cas, I can’t… If I do, they’ll know and I’ll go to jail, too.” Dean grumbles.

         Castiel’s arm tightens around him minimally. “I won’t let that happen.” He says quietly. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

         Dean shakes his head. “You can’t promise that.”

         “Well, I’ll fight for you. Sam and I already talked to the police…” Castiel says, shushing Dean when he tenses. “We told them nothing besides you were drugged. We can figure something out.”

         “You can’t lie for me, Cas.” Dean says, feeling the weight of sleep begin pressing on him.

         “I can and I will. I will protect you, Dean.”

         “Why? You can get in just as much trouble for lying.” Dean asks, pressing into Castiel’s touch.

         “Because I love you and I can’t lose you.” Castiel says it with conviction and truth. Speaking that look, that feeling, that Dean has been hiding from this whole time.

         “What?” he asks, eyes drooping.

         “Go to sleep, sweetheart,” Castiel’s voice rumbles. He feels his heart thrumming in his chest and Castiel murmurs into his hair, “I’m sorry, but you are gonna have to talk to the police. We can figure it out when you wake up.” Dean’s heart clenches and he curls in on himself and wants to put up more walls. But he’s so tired and Castiel is peppering him with kisses and compliments, soothing him into a dreamless sleep.

****

          Dean’s barely waking up from his deep sleep and he shifts in the cot, surprised that Castiel isn’t still snuggled close to him. “Cas?” he murmurs sleepily. It’s oddly quiet in the room and he looks around, seeing a doctor standing at the foot of his bed and a lump on the floor. As his eyes adjust, his heart stops. Lying face-down in a small puddle of blood is…

          “Cas!” Dean yells as he jerks upright, wincing from the pain.

          The doctor turns to Dean, his mouth and nose covered with a mask. “Sorry, Mr. Winchester, but he had to be sedated. He was getting wildly uncontrollable.” That voice. Those eyes… “And we can’t have you talking to the cops, now can we?”

          No. Not him.

          “Now, hold still.” And a damp cloth is pressed to Dean’s face.

****

“You can’t keep me here!” Dean snarls, tugging at his bound wrists above his head. “People will wonder where I am! Crowley will—“

          “Crowley will what?” Dean is cut off by that familiar accent. It can’t be.  Alistair’s face twists into a bone-chilling leer, the dim lighting giving his face a hollowed-out look. It can’t be.

          Crowley steps into the room, holding a glass of scotch. He leans against the doorframe, eyes taking in Dean’s trussed up, half-naked form with a sort of detached interest. Like he is watching a rerun of a crime show on television. He looks at Alistair, lifting the glass and asking, "Took some of the scotch... Hope you don't mind?" Dean lunges forward as best he can, wrist and ankle cuffs holding him to his spot. He snarls at his boss, “You dick!”

          Crowley rolls his eyes at the insult and takes a sip from his glass.

          “You can’t do this!!” Dean shouts, yanking at the leather binding in vain.

          “Oh, but can’t I?” Crowley chuckles, meandering deeper into the room filled with chains and straps. “You see, I knew you were going to quit soon. After that little stunt you pulled last week, I couldn’t risk you quitting and revealing what I do. And then that boy toy of yours went to the police… So, I went to Alistair and we struck up a deal.”

          Dean’s eyes shifted from Crowley to Alistair, who has been standing to the side during the exchange. He holds Dean’s gaze and ice flows through Dean’s veins.

          “Al over here was paying you per week, correct? Well, if you left, who would he have to hire? None of the others are as good as you, Dean. You’re my best-seller.” Crowley pets Dean along the side of his face with his free hand and Dean pulls back in disgust. “Alright, enough flattery. Alistair had all this money set aside for you, but where would it go if you quit? Hmmm?” Crowley paces closer to Dean. “And what would happen to us if you went to the cops? Nothing good, as you can imagine.’”

          Dean feels shame burning his cheeks as he pries his gaze away from Crowley.

           “So, we did what had to be done.”

         “Is… Is he..?” Dean swallows thickly. “What happened to Cas?”

         “We dealt with him accordingly.” Crowley leers. “He won’t be telling anyone anything.”

         “ _No_.” Dean breathes.

         Alistair’s cold laugh pierces Dean’s heart and he feels tidal waves of guilt wash over him, suffocating him.

         “He had to be removed. He was a problem.” Crowley says. “Anyways, good new for you! I sold you outright to Alistair!”

         “I’m _not_ an item to be sold.” Dean says between clenched teeth and through a sheen of tears. Repeating what Castiel has told him time and time again.

          Alistair’s dark laugh comes from the side. “Oh, but aren’t you?” Crowley sneers. “You sold yourself to me _the minute_ I plucked you up off the streets. You didn’t even hesitate.”

          “I-I…” Dean swallows thickly.

         “You are nothing. You are a toy. Granted, a very nice toy, but a toy all the same. You should appreciate me selling you like this. Let’s face it, once you hit thirty years, no one would want you anymore. You would be out of a job and you’re not good at anything else.” Crowley’s words hit Dean like a truck and he feels himself spiraling. “Honestly, Dean, I don’t know why you are trying so hard to get away. Out of this business, what the bloody hell use are you?” Crowley hisses the last part in Dean’s face.

          _It’s true. He’s right._ Dean’s heart stutters in his chest. “People will care that I’m gone.” He says weakly.

          “Who will? There’s only your brother left. And who else even cared about you? Really, the nurse was probably just in it because he wanted a good fuck.” Dean’s hackles rise at Crowley’s comments.

          Dean stares at Crowley and then at Alistair and feels woozy all of the sudden. His bindings keep his standing upright, but he still sags a little.

          “Of course, little Sammy will figure out what happened, but the rest of the world won’t ever know.”

          “But… my…” Dean stammers. “ _Please_ , don’t do this.” Dean begs as Crowley turns to leave the room.

          “Sorry, Dean, but I have a flight to Mexico to catch.” Crowley says breezily. He turns to Alistair with a nod. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

          Crowley is gone, the click of his dress shoes echo through the apartment until the sound of the front door signals his exit. Dean feels as though his chest is constricting. The air is getting thinner as Alistair prowls nearer. He sucks in short, shallow breaths. This can’t be happening. Alistair takes Dean’s chin in his thumb and forefinger, lifting his face upwards.

           “Now, now,” he tuts. “What are we gonna do with you?”

****

          Dean screams again, unable to hold himself up anymore. His wrists cry out from the weight of his body and his right shoulder aches like a knife is lodged in it. Maybe one is. He doesn’t want to lift his head to look. He can’t tell how long it’s been. There is no clock. There are no windows. Time melts together and Dean can’t tell if this has been going on for minutes or days. All he knows is the pain that shoots through him. The exhaustion from holding himself up. The straps ripping past his flesh and pushing at his bones. The rough hands groping and hitting and wielding all sorts of things. Alistair takes a break, leaving Dean slumping in his binding. But he can’t relax. Not when he knows Alistair will be back. And he is back.

          Alistair slithers around to Dean’s front, erect penis in Dean’s face. He roughly shoves his erection into Dean’s mouth, thrusting hard and fast. Dean gags around it, suffocating as Alistair rams into him, holding him down with fistfuls of hair. And he’s crying and trying to shout at him to stop because he can’t breathe. _Can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe._ And so he bites down. Not hard. But it’s all he can think to do to get him to stop. _To just stop._ And Alistair stops, pulling out with a curse.

          “If you’re going to hurt me, I’m going to have to punish you.” Alistair snarls, backhanding Dean across the face. Dean’s head is reeling and he feels blood dripping from his nose. “And this time, I don’t have to return you in good condition.”

          Alistair beats him, not holding anything back. Dean screams and cries and begs forgiveness, but Alistair keeps it coming, seeming to get more enjoyment from this than he had ever gotten from any sex before. Dean slumps in his binds, shoulder screaming as all his weight hangs from his wrists. Or maybe he’s still screaming. And he can’t lift his head. It feels large and swollen and he’s dizzy and vomit pours from his lips after a harsh blow to the stomach. All he can feel is pain and he tries to focus on something else. Somewhere other than this dark, abysmal room. Something other than the never-ending pain. Someone other than Alistair. _I’m on the balcony and it’s cold and I’m with Castiel._ His mind is foggy and the lie doesn’t stick; he can’t displace himself from this. Not when Alistair is laughing, sounding faraway and too close all at once. Dean blinks blearily, trying to pull himself upright. _Stay strong for them._ He tells himself, swaying to the right. _Stay strong for Sam and Cas._

          “That’s right, little soldier-boy,” Alistair taunts, picking up a flogger from his chest, metal barbs gilinting in the dim lighting. “Stand up for me.”

****

         Dean doesn’t know when he blacks out, but he wakes up huddled in a ball on the floor. He feels as though he is underwater, everything is muffled and slightly wavering. Gotta get out. He tries to push himself onto all fours, but his right arm won’t hold any weight and he crumples to the ground instantly. He feels woozy from the fall and sucks in deep breaths, grounding himself. _Try again._ This time, he scoots across the floor, dragging himself to the golden outline of light shining between the closed door’s cracks. Something stops him. It’s wrapped around his ankle. He pulls and hears the chink of chains. A sob explodes from between his busted lips and he claws at his ankle, trying to tear the cuff off. Trying to break free. But he can’t. And he looks at himself and finds he is naked and can’t remember when that happened, either. He feels disgusting and dirty and used.

           He blinks away more tears, eyes adjusting to the dark as his head seems to surface. He can see the large, metal frame he had been strapped to; the leather bindings hanging open limply. He sits up, scooting back to lean against the wall. He hisses in pain as his back touches the cold stone. He doesn’t know if it’s the old injuries or new ones he’s feeling. “Okay, okay,” he whispers to himself. “Let’s see the damage.” He knows his right arm is probably dislocated; the shoulder joint throbbing with every move he makes while the rest of the arm is tingling like static on a television set. He looks at his arms and sees bruising on his wrists and small cuts on the underside of his left arm. His torso seems to be intact aside from small cuts and a few large bruises. His back hurts, but he figures it’s from past injuries. His ass, he recalls, got the brunt of the flogging and it stings to sit on it too long.

          He tips his head back against the wall, letting a tear fall down his dirty cheek. “Cas, please,” he prays brokenly to the only person he’s ever believed in besides Sam, “help me.”

          The sound of footsteps makes Dean stiffen. The shadow of feet appear in the bottom of the door’s outline before the door swings open and the overhead light switches on. Dean squints at Alistair’s Tim-Burton-esque figure, eyes adjusting to the light. Alistair slowly walks up to Dean until he’s towering over him. Dean clenches his jaw, defiantly making eye contact. Alistair scoffs at Dean’s bravado, squatting down so that he is level with him. A skeletal hand reaches for Dean’s face, causing him to flinch, but he doesn’t back away. Doesn’t cower. The hand strokes Dean’s jaw and the cold, black eyes stare at him. Looking. Watching.

          “How’s my pet doing today?”

         _Today?_ Dean wonders how long he was out for. He doesn’t answer the man, jerking his face away from the touch.

          Alistair’s eyes grow colder; fill with jagged shards of ice. His hand drops to Dean’s right shoulder, squeezing it, digging his long fingernails into the tender flesh. Dean chokes back screams, only letting out a small noise of pain. “I recommend being on your best behavior, Dean.” The man hisses, squeezing down on his shoulder again.

          Dean’s vision gets spotty from pain, but he just growls, “Screw yourself.”

          “Why would I do that when I have you here?” Alistair jeers, releasing Dean’s shoulder. “Roll over for me, Dean. Let me see that pretty ass of yours.”

          Dean presses his back into the wall. “No.” he snaps, voice wavering ever so slightly.

          Alistair backhands Dean, sending him toppling to the side. Dean is struggling to sit back up when there’s a knock on the door. Alistair freezes in his attempts to force Dean onto the ground, looking out of the room. Dean prays its the police or anyone. Alistair stands slowly, brushing the wrinkles from his button-down shirt. He walks to the doorway, pausing to turn to Dean.

          “Make one sound and I’ll kill you.” His high voice is casual, but it’s a promise and it sends shivers down Dean’s spine. “If you so much as cough, I’ll kill them, too. Understand?”

          Dean stares up at Alistair’s gaze as he finally pushes himself back to a seat. He nods once, hating that he has to agree with the man. Hating that he’s making a deal with a snake.

          Alistair nods, taking a knife from the chest near the door and holding it behind his back as he slips out of the room and down the hall. Dean listens intently as Alistair’s footsteps fade and he hears the sounds of the lock being turned and the door opening. “Hello.” Castiel’s voice. _Oh, God, Cas is alive. Cas is here._ Tears spring into Dean’s eyes because Castiel is here. _He isn’t dead._ He wants to scream with joy that Cas is alive, to yell for Cas to find him. That he’s here. But he can’t and it sends an ache through his chest that makes him double over. Dean is so _fucking_ close to freedom, but he can’t do anything. He wants to scream, to cry, to make some kind of sound. But he can’t put Cas at risk again. He won’t.

          “May I… help you?” Alistair’s voice is condescending and Dean can picture the man looking down his nose at Castiel.

          “I’m looking for Dean Winchester. I believe you hired him.” Castiel’s voice is sure, strong, and loud.

          There’s a pause before Alistair replies, “I did hire him. He quit a week ago. Haven’t seen him since.”

          “You wouldn’t mind me checking, would you?” Castiel’s voice is a growl now.

           _Cas, NO. Go home._ Dean silently begs. _Don’t upset him._

          “I’m sorry, but are you accusing me of lying?” Alistair’s nasally voice is defensive and Dean can feel the tension leaking into the air.

          Castiel doesn’t reply and Dean can picture the stare-off they’re having. He begs and prays to God that Castiel leaves. That he gets out safely. The sound of the door closing alerts Dean that Castiel is safe and gone. He exhales, relief flooding his system… Before the sounds of footsteps approaching cause the relief to be replaced with anxiety and adrenaline. Alistair is back in the doorway, his sleeves rolled up as he undoes his belt. “Now,” he tuts, pulling the leather free of his belt loops, “where were we?”

****

          Dean lays on the ground an hour later, spitting out a mouthful of blood. He’d gotten a few good hits in, but it barely made a difference. He was tied down and couldn’t use his right arm. The fight hadn’t lasted long. He squeezes his eyes shut, curling up on the floor that is stained with his own blood. He thinks of Castiel and Sam. _I failed them._ His breath hitches and the feeling of hopelessness begins to seep into his heart. He stares across the floor when he sees it. Shining like a lighthouse in a storm, a metal barb lies on the floor a few feet from him. It must have come detached from the flogger yesterday. His eyes go wide and he stares at the piece of metal. Dean pulls himself across the floor, chain around his ankle pulling taut as he stretches his left arm forward, reaching as far as he can. His fingers finally grasp the cold metal and he wants to cry out in joy. He scoots back to the wall, pulling his cuffed ankle close and inspecting the key hole. He smiles, tears stinging his eyes because he can do this. He bends the barb by pushing it against the ground before he starts to work on the cuff. He twists and jiggles his makeshift pickpocket kit inside the keyhole, cocking his head to the side as he picks the lock.

           _Click_.

          The cuff falls open. Dean lets a small, joyful noise fall from his lips. He’s free. He struggles to stand, leaning heavily on the wall. He’s so dizzy. He sways, nearly losing his footing, but he staggers to the small, asylum-like bed, gripping it for stability with his left hand as his right arm hangs limply by his side. He sucks in a deep breath, staring at the doorway that seems miles away. He stumbles forward, falling as the world turns sideways around him. _Thud_. He lands on his shoulder and yelps, wrapping his left arm around his body to grip the injured limb to him.

          Loud, marching footsteps are coming.

          _Oh no._ He wants to vomit. _No. Nononono._

          The door swings open and Alistair is scowling down at him. Time freezes as Dean is being sucked into the black holes that are Alistair’s eyes. Pulling him apart. He stammers something, but can’t hear what he’s saying. Alistair takes a step into the room. Dean feels himself hyperventilating. He can’t breathe. No matter how many breaths he takes, nothing is going into his lungs. He’s drowning. He hears fragments of what Alistair is saying. “You… Disobeyed… Kill… No one will know.” His panic rises and he tries to get up, to scramble away, but Alistair is on him. Smashing him. Suffocating him further. _I can’t breathe._

          A bang comes from outside the room. The sound of running boots approach. Someone yells, “Dallas Police Department! Come out with your hands up!”

          “You—“ Alistair doesn’t get to finish his sentence because the boots are here. The clicking of guns being aimed. The hiss of a walkie-talkie spewing numbers. “Mr. Alistair, put your hands up and remove yourself from that man.” A woman’s voice commands. Dean tries to breathe because he’s safe. But he can’t. _What if this is a dream? What if I’ve gone crazy?_ Alistair’s weight is off of him and Dean rolls onto his side, vomiting nothing and choking on air. The next few minutes is a blur of men in boots shouting. Of a woman giving orders. Dean is dizzy and his vision is fogged. The click of handcuffs. Two pairs of hands reaching for Dean. He screams and thrashes. He thinks he hears Castiel’s voice calling to him. _Cas isn’t here. It’s Alistair._ He fights until there’s the sting of a needle in his arm, injecting warmth and calm. A scratchy blanket being wrapped around him is the last thing he feels as he drifts away, as the woman’s voice swims in his head.

“Get him to the hospital. Poor kid…”

 


	4. Epilogue

 

           A soft wind blows through the countryside, carrying a dozen orange and golden brown leaves from the ground and onto the wooden, wrap-around porch of a house sitting unaccompanied on fifteen-acres of land. The rumble of a car engine rolling up the gravel driveway is the only sound aside from a few crickets this early in the morning. The 1967 Impala pulls to a stop in front of the home before the engine cuts off, leaving the early morning hour quiet once again. The door to the driver’s side opens and Castiel steps out of the car, wearing his black scrubs. He walks up the steps onto the porch, rifling through the keyring in his hand before unlocking the front door and quietly stepping into the house he and Dean bought together one year ago.

           Castiel slips his shoes off before padding through the home and into the master bedroom. He smiles lightly at Dean’s sleeping form wrapped up in their dark purple sheets and comforter. He takes in the splash of freckles that are barely visible across Dean’s nose and cheeks in the dim lighting. The sweep of eyelashes and the full, soft lips that are slightly parted as small snores come through them. Castiel slips into the bathroom before pulling off his scrub top and bottoms and depositing them into the hamper, leaving only his briefs and socks on. He washes his hands and face and is drying off when a strangled sort of cry comes from the bedroom. He hangs the towel up and exits the bedroom, standing beside the queen-sized bed where Dean is laying. The man’s once-serene face is scrunched up in pain and his breathing is short and frantic, chest heaving. His hands are fisting the sheets, knuckles white from the grip. Castiel lays on the bed, pulling the covers over himself before turning towards Dean and carefully reaching out to pull him into his arms.

          It has been two years since Alistair and, at first, Dean’s night terrors had happened twice a week or more. It had been draining on Dean and terrifying for Sam and Castiel as they could hardly ever wake Dean from them and, if they did, he seemed trapped in the state of terror for a long while after he awoke. Slowly, with the help of Sam, Castiel, and two therapy sessions a week for six months with a Mr. Benny Lafitte, the dark dreams that suffocated Dean became less frequent. Now, it’s just a sporadic kind of thing that happens. And Castiel just pulls Dean close and murmurs comfort in his ear until the episode ends. Dean’s grip on the covers slowly goes slack and his face relaxes before his eyelashes fan upwards, revealing his emerald green eyes.

          “Hey,” Castiel whispers. “Are you alright?”

          “It was a bad one,” Dean sounds exhausted as he presses his nose to Castiel’s neck and kisses his clavicle.

          “I’m sorry.” Castiel says, rubbing his hands up and down Dean’s back.

          “’S okay, babe,” Dean murmurs against him. “But I don’t wanna talk about it right now. Can we do the sharing and caring bit after we sleep?”

          “Yes, that’s fine,” Castiel replies softly, glad that Dean is more open to talking now.

          “M’kay,” Dean yawns, cuddling closer to Castiel and twining their legs together. “Night.”

           Castiel wakes up in the middle of the day to an empty bed and the smell of toasted bread wafting into the bedroom. He sits up and walks out of the bedroom after pulling on an oversized tee with a large, smiling pumpkin on it. He finds Dean flipping two grilled cheese sandwiches on a skillet. He mumbles his hello and Dean is immediately pressing a mug of warm coffee into his hands. The two sit together, munching on their sandwiches. Dean recounts his dream with a frown and Castiel holds his hand, anchoring him. Dean finishes the dream, setting the last half of his sandwich aside and pressing the heels of his hands to his temples.

          “You’re okay, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, moving to sit alongside Dean. He knows how draining the dreams are and how reliving them like this can be just as strenuous on the man. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

          “I know… Thanks, babe,” Dean sighs, dropping his hands to his lap. “Thank you.”

          Castiel smiles at Dean, pressing a kiss to his freckled shoulder.

          “I, uh, I know this is kind of changing the subject, but… I wanted to say that… I really like you.” Dean says with a slight blush.

          “I should hope so,” Castiel quips with an arched eyebrow.

          Dean huffs a laugh, continuing, “And, you know, we’ve been together for a while now, right? Like two years is a pretty solid amount of time.”

          “I suppose.”

          “And… I just… I fucking love you, man.” Dean blurts out. Sure, he’s said the “L-word” to Castiel before, but the times have been few and far between as Dean prefers to show Cas how he feels because words are hard. “And I love your dorky shirts and your bees in our backyard and I love that you wear socks all the time. You… And you’re always here. You stayed and you… Thank you. And I love that you stayed with me because I’m a mess. And I, fuck, I love your eyes and your hair and you.”

          Castiel’s lips are tilting upwards. He reaches for his coffee mug and says, “Wow, Dean, that’s the most I have ever heard you use the ‘L-word’ in the past year. Be careful, it sounds like you’re proposing.”

          “Well, maybe I am.”

          Castiel coughs up the coffee he had started to drink and stares at Dean wide-eyed. The man’s freckles stand stark against the red flush across his face.

          “So, uh, yeah. Do you wanna? You know, get married? To me?” Dean asks, looking shy and youthful and hopeful and happy.

          And Castiel kisses him and they are both smiling so big as they kiss each other and Dean is laughing and Castiel is just saying, “Yes, yes, _yes_. I love you.” And Dean is thinking how crazy this is because he never believed moments like this could happen to him. But here he was, in a nice house with a small bee farm in the backyard and a closet full of Castiel’s sweaters and scrubs alongside his plaid shirts and jeans and he is happy and Sam is in college at the University of Texas before heading to Stanford next semester and everything is good. Not perfect, but pretty damn close.

          “Can we get married next fall?” Castiel asks against his lips.

 “Sure,” Dean breathes between kissing his fiancé.

          “Let’s get married in October, that’s a good month.”

          “Why’s that? Halloween wedding?” Dean teases.

          “That’s when I first decided to talk to my super-hot neighbor for the first time… Although, I didn’t actually do so until November.” Castiel laughs.

          Dean kisses Castiel hard on the mouth. _Yeah, this is pretty damn close to perfect._


End file.
